


There’s A Million Things They’ll Never Get To Do

by Glass_Stars



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Bisexual Thomas Jefferson, Death, Demisexual James Madison, F/F, F/M, Gay John Laurens, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Hunger Games AU, LGBT characters, M/M, PTSD, Relationships to be added - Freeform, Violence, characters from other fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Stars/pseuds/Glass_Stars
Summary: Hamilton characters in a Hunger Games AU...It’s the 81st Hunger Games, and everyone has forgotten about the one ten years ago, when their famous star-crossed lovers’ dream was quelled when Peeta Mellark held Katniss Everdeen as she died from poisonous berries in his arms.The Capital has made it clear- no tales of bedazzling romances will save two instead of one.But these new tributes have Panem excited- magenta suits and indigo eyes are just the beginning of their curiosity.With intriguing choices of allies, unexpected romances, and tragic deaths, perhaps this year’s Game won’t be one to forget.Trigger Warnings for Death, Violence, Swearing, and more sensitive topics that will be addressed in the beginning of the chapters when they occur!Also, I don’t have chapters specifically prepared, so... I’ll do my best!





	1. Charms

**Author's Note:**

> Starting off the story from Elizabeth Schuyler’s perspective~!  
> And hey, John André isn’t so bad  
> Mantis belongs to Marvel

**Eliza Schuyler, District One**

**~Reaping Day, District One~**

Eliza tied her sister’s brown curls up onto her head and offered her an encouraging smile. “There,” she sighed. “Now we have to go, alright?”

Peggy was still staring at herself in the mirror, and even with a thoughtful, worried frown on her face she still looked beautiful in her buttercup yellow dress and her brown ringlets.

“I wish Angelica was here,” she muttered instead.

Eliza winced, because she had been wishing the same thing though she hadn’t wanted to admit it. It would be their first Reaping without their third member of the well known “Schuyler Sisters,” and without Angelica’s teasing and glittering dark eyes she was feeling even more nervous than usual. Like they had lost their good luck charm.

 _Nonsense,_ she tried to convince herself. _We’re safer being split apart._ With Angelica being in District Four there was less of chance that one of their names would be pulled. _There is already such a low chance- my name is only in there six times, Peggy’s in five. We’ll be fine._

“She’ll be fine,” she said said aloud instead. She patted Peggy’s heard, earning a familiar glare that made her smile despite their ominous predicament. “We’ll see her later,” she reminded Peggy and giving her a comforting smile. “She might be living by the ocean but she will visit us a few times during the year.”

“I know,” Peggy muttered, blowing a stray curl from her face in an adorable way and she let Eliza lead her out of the house, her arms crossed. “It’s just too _weird_ not having her with us.”

Eliza silently agreed, because if Angelica was here she would be glaring at the boys who would look at them longingly, would have each of them at her sides with their arms looped together and her head held high as she distracted their nerves with unceasing chattering and smirking smiles.

Instead, the two sisters walked closely side-by-side, ignored the boys who stared after them, and didn’t say anything unless it was felt to be said. Eliza wished she knew what to say, though, because Angelica was the reassuring, uplifting one. Eliza was the one who saw the good, and comforted, and Peggy was their worried but fond spitfire.

They entered the lines of children awaiting to get their fingers pricked and directed to their age groups, and under her breath where only Eliza could hear Peggy grumbled, “look at all these smiling, self-righteous idiots. You’d think it was their birthday today, not someone’s death sentence,” and when Eliza opened her mouth to respond she said hurriedly, “please don’t spew any of that ‘look around at how lucky we are alive to be right now’ crap at me right now or I’m going to be sick.”

“It’s a Reaping, Peggy,” Eliza smiled wryly. “I’m an optimist, not an idiot.”

Peggy flushed in embarrassment and muttered of an apology of, “yeah, good point.” She held out her hand and didn’t flinch as her finger was pricked, and she waved to Eliza with a smile before disappearing into the colorful crowd of the other female sixteen year olds.

Eliza shook her head fondly and held out her finger. Four years of practice had taught her routine and what to expect, so the sting didn’t come as much of a surprise as it had her first time when she was twelve.

As the Redcoat beckoned her to continue, she shook her head in disgust once she had passed. The idea that children as young as twelve could get reaped and escorted to their deaths in a blur of emotion and sickening color made her feel ill. Especially because when she thought too hard about it, the fact was that _she_ was still a child herself, even if she was just an older one.

 _We’re all just kids._ Thinking of sweet, cautious and cheeky Peggy being sent to her death, coming back home with dead eyes terrified her.

She had watched multiple Games because her father had gently encouraged her it was for the best to learn what to expect in the arenas, and while she had watched helplessly as kids were slaughtered by hands not much older or younger than theirs, she could never truly understand what trauma and horror they had experienced and would have to suffer when they got back. No one returned the same, and that was almost the scariest part of it all. Some part of them was dead when they returned, and nothing would ever be the same.

She was distracted as she gathered into the crowd of other bustling seventeen year olds, and she avoided their eyes while knowing that some were watching her with every emotion from curiosity to envy, because being one of the daughters to one of the wealthiest District families always centered her under the spotlight.

Another reason why she missed Angelica- her sister could handle the attention so much better. Angelica thrived anywhere, but she absolutely glowed under attention. The best part was that it wasn’t because she was self-centered- it was because she knew how to socialize and turn the limelight into something that she could control. Eliza had never been able to manipulate light so easily, and it was uncomfortable having it bear down on her again.

She looked up as Mantis shuffled onto stage, smiling shyly out into the crowd. It was always kind of a shock seeing the Capitolite after a long span of time, even though she saw Mantis each year.

Some Capitolites had pink hair, or claws, or tiger fur, but Mantis didn’t. Antenna sprouted from her forehead, her silky black hair was cut just below her shoulders and her eyes were big and black with a speck of white light. She looked like a bug hybrid, but overall Eliza was content with her personality. Soft spoken but friendly, even if some of her district members scoffed and made fun of her look when the escort wasn’t around.

“Hi everyone,” the girl spoke into the microphone, her velvet voice washing soothingly over them. “How are you feeling?” Cheers aroused at her words and grins sparkled, but Eliza stayed quiet, disgusted at their applause.

 _They’re blind,_ she sighed to herself. _Blinded by self-righteousness and greed, and I won’t let myself_ _become like that._

She tuned out as the yearly video played, the one that showcased the history of the Hunger Games, because she had studied enough text to know how it had went down.

In some ways, it was easier to blame the extinguished District 13 for the creation of the Games. They had led the rebellion against the Capital, and then when the tides had turned against their forces they had fled, leaving the resulting districts to be destroyed by a depression that resulted in the invention of the reality show that threw 24 innocent kids into a battle to the death.

_Massacres of two different names._

“I know we’re all very excited,” Mantis smiled, appealing to the crowd’s energy, “so let’s get to it!”

Eliza remained stone-faced in face of the hollers and claps, and she kept still when Mantis announced, “John Andrè!” and a boy with long dark hair took the stage with winking white teeth and honey-colored eyes.

Eliza recognized him immediately and shifted uneasily. John came from one of the wealthiest families of One, much like she, and like all the other teenagers who could afford it- again, like she could -he was secretly trained in preparation for the Games so that he would be ready to partake or volunteer for it.

She felt a sharp pang of worry that writhed in her stomach. She had met John multiple times when she was younger, and he had always been respectful and charming. One time he had drawn a sketch of her and gave it to her, and she had marveled over the concise lines and clean strokes while he smiled shyly.

There wasn’t a single trace of worry on his face now- just excitement and eager anticipation as he waved to the crowd who murmured in approval at his energy and willingness to fight. “Thank you, thank you District One,” he beamed, performing a sweeping bow. “I am honored to be chosen to bring home another victory for our District!”

Satisfied and delightful nods and whistles followed his words accompanied with Eliza’s constricting heart at his smile, sharp and confident as the picture he had drawn.

 _Who would have to die for him to win? Or who could be the one who killed him?_ Because he might terrify the other tributes, but they didn’t know him like she did.

“And now our ladies,” Mantis, continued her fingers elegantly plucking a white slip and Eliza tensed, struggling to keep a steady breathing pace and ignore the rapid, hurting pulse of her heart. She frantically sought for a glimpse of her sister’s pretty yellow dress or head of brown curls but came up without any luck. _Keep Peggy safe,_ she prayed silently instead, closing her eyes. _Keep Peggy safe, keep Peggy safe… oh, Angelica, why couldn’t you-!_

“Elizabeth Schuyler!” Mantis announced, and for a moment Eliza relaxed. _Not Peggy._ Then her heart stopped and she forgot how to breathe. _Me. Elizabeth Schuyler._

“Elizabeth?” Eliza was jerked back to some sort of reality when Mantis skimmed the crowd curiously for her, and her round, dark eyes finally on her. “Don’t be afraid,” Mantis called to her  gently, beckoning her up with a delicate hand, and oh god all their eyes were on her, expecting her, pressuring her, and _go up to your death Eliza, money and your father can’t save you now_ and _this is what you deserve,_ and _can’t wait to watch you die,_ and _how are_ you _going to come back?_

Eliza snapped back to the true present at the thought, and she lifted her head evenly, giving everyone a calm smile as she eased her way between them, and _huh_ , she was suddenly at Mantis’s side up on the stage, _keep smiling,_ John was shaking her hand with a smile, though it had slipped as he recognized her, _don’t show them you're afraid,_ she saw the dismay on her father’s face, _you can do this,_ she caught gazes with Peggy, saw the distress and pleading and sparkle of tears in her sister’s huge eyes, _helpless._

“Your tributes, District One!” Mantis cheered, pointing her microphone towards the crowd, and they cheered back with much more enthusiasm then before, because a _Schuyler_ had been chosen.

One of the Schuyler _Sisters_.

_Angelica, Peggy, Eliza._

She smiled into the crowd that urged for death and fought back the tears that stung from behind her eyes.

 _Angelica, Peggy… how can I make it back?_ _God Angelica, I wish you were here…_


	2. Manipulating Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Berry belongs to the T.V show, Glee.  
> Angelica /really/ loves her sisters, ok? The Reapings take place at different times throughout the day, so she is unaware that Eliza was reaped.

**Angelica Schuyler, District Four**

**~Reaping Day, District Four~**

A year in, and Angelica still wasn’t used to the salty air of Four.

The scent reminded her too much of the tang blood, which she was forced to think about as she was guided to her first Reaping in Four.

 _I suppose that doesn’t bother a Career district though,_ she thought dryly. Hypocritical thinking because she had lived in two of those districts now? Maybe. She hadn’t been raised to be a bloodluster, though she had been one of many to receive private training in One for the Games.

It was her last Reaping at eighteen, and her name was in the bowl seven times.

 _Stupid,_ she grumbled to herself. _I_ transferred _here, why should my name even be put_ in _the bowl?_

But rules were rules, especially when they were flawed and unlogical, and you didn’t break the rules unless you wanted to be punished.

_I always wanted to be free from the judgement being a Schuyler brought me… I guess I have it now._

Because there weren’t any Schuylers to be envious of in District Four, and she wouldn’t be a Schuyler for much longer.

Her fingers flexed and clenched into fists the way they always did when she thought about her arranged marriage. One of the worst things about coming from a rich family- you had the prevailing experience of being shipped off to marry another undoubtedly rich man.

In some ways, Angelica knew she was lucky. Her father had considered her wishes, and John Barker Church was far from ugly or unlikeable. He had a nice face and a sweet smile and he never treated her like she was unequal to him for being a woman. He gave her the utmost respect and consideration.

It could’ve been worse.

Much, _much_ worse.

_Just… I wish I could choose that part of my life. I wish I could stay with my sisters._

Lost in thought, the prick of her finger didn’t hurt and she grouped in the front with the other eighteen year olds.

It was too quiet without Eliza’s twinkling laugh and reminders of what was good in the world, and Peggy’s incessant worrying that contrasted her interest in change. Right now she knew that District One’s Reaping was already complete, that they would be home right now and Peggy would be complaining about how uncomfortable her dress had been, and Eliza would roll her eyes affectionately and promise her bread and fruit just like they always did for dinner after the Reaping.

Even though Angelica felt pained thinking about how much she missed their smiles and laughs, what mattered most was that they were safe. _They’re safe. And after suffering through these few minutes, I will be, too._

She released a breath, and her worries faded to be replaced by an impatience to return home- well, back to her and John’s house -so she could write some more letters to her family.

‘ _The Reapings in Four are about as exciting as they are back in One,_ ’ she would tell them. ‘ _The only difference is that I’m suddenly much more appreciative of Mantis…_ ’

Because she watched as Four’s Rachel Berry took the stage, tossing her thick, shiny brown hair behind her shoulder and giving them all a winning, broad smile, reading: “ _I’m_ _here_ , _District_ _Four_. _Did_ _you_ _miss_ _me?_ ”

“Nope,” Angelica muttered to herself in reply.

Rachel tapped the microphone, saying with a professional tone, “testing, testing. Can everyone hear me?” She waited for a moment, then gave an indulgent nod and straightened, flashing her white teeth. “Welcome to this year’s Reaping everyone,” she greeted them, and Angelica winced at the girl’s voice, loud and vibrant and haughty to gain everyone’s attention. “I know we must all be very excited,” she continued, “so I won’t make you wait any longer…” she nodded to the side, and the towering screen next to the stage lit up and started playing the video of the Hunger Games’ creation history.

‘ _The video is the same too,_ ’ she would write in her letter, pointedly blocking out the noble, informative tone the narrator for the film took on. Because the information was anything but honorable, and she refused to fall for the message. ‘ _You didn’t miss anything._ ’

 _Except my presence._ She winced, because, knowing her sisters, they had probably been worrying the whole time about her. Her sisters were anything but helpless or dependent, but she could feel an emptiness in her like she was writing a letter and couldn’t think of the right thing words to use.

Rachel Berry turned back to face them with an award-winning smile after the screen went dark, continuing with a heartfelt sigh, “oh, our history. I don’t think anything in the world has been rewarded with such justice and nobility.”

Angelica took a moment in her boredom and gloom to stare at her. _Justice? Nobility?_ She wondered incredulously. _How is having children fight to their deaths_ honorable _?_ Rage struck her, hot and shuddering, but she clenched her jaw, fuming silently. _Why is it so hard to understand?_ But somehow it was, and she had witnessed it year after year, and would continue to see it until the day she died.

 _What a horrible life._ The only thing that made it worthwhile were her sisters.

“Let’s see who our tributes will be this year, hmm?” She winked, and Angelica tensed, watching as she plucked a paper slip from the glass bowl containing the boys’ names. “For our boys… George Washington!”

A tall boy left the ranks of the eighteen year olds from behind, and Angelica blinked in surprise because she recognized from around town. Respectful, calm, brave and skilled in battle… Angelica wasn't going to be surprised if he won the whole thing.

Then again… she knew her people in District One. They never went down without a fight, and it hurt her head to think about, as if she were picking sides, betting like a frivolous, blissfully ignorant Capitolite. _I won't be like that._ Instead she took a deep breath and wished him well.

A small, forced smile was on his face, but his brown eyes were hard and their depths held fire. _He hates this too._

“And our girls…”

Angelica watched, scowling. _Which girl would have to go up against him?_

Would it be someone like Peggy, energetic and thoughtful?

Or Eliza, kind and hopeful?

Or maybe they-

“Angelica Schuyler!”

-would be her.

Never had Angelica hated her name like she did in that moment.

 _Angelica Schuyler. My name was in there_ seven _times. Just seven._

Her feet knew what to do, even if her mind was still stunned. _How many kids have I seen walk up here?_ It felt unreal. She had always known that this had been a possibility, but… it had seemed so slim…

She shook George’s hand, and there wasn’t any smug confidence or appraisal in his deep brown eyes. Just a grim knowledge of the darkness that hinted the things that were to come. She wondered what she looked like. Pale? Blank-faced? The same acknowledgement of their dire situation in her own gaze?

 _You’re not weak,_ she reminded herself firmly. _Don’t show them any fear._ She turned back to the crowd and lifted her head to stare evenly at them. _I’ve trained. I’ve grown up knowing the injustice of those who exert power and wealth over their captives. I’ve lived each day trying to be confident in myself and loving those I care about without letting myself become who the Capital wants me to be. These Games won’t make me a monster._

_I won’t let them._

“I present to you,” Rachel Berry announced proudly like she was awarding them some great honor, “your tributes!”

A polite smatter of applause followed her words, but there was a horrible ringing in Angelica’s ears, and suddenly the large expanse around them was too crowded, the colors too expecting, the walls towering around her caving in…

 _Why are you going to come back, Angelica?_ She asked herself quietly. _To prove them wrong. This won’t be about a revolution. This will be about a revelation, and they’re going to hear my voice._ She smiled wryly. _I’m a Schuyler Sister. They’ll want to listen to me. And my sisters._ They’ll be watching her, praying for her to return to them alive.

_I love my sisters more than anything in this life._

She took another deep breath, steeling herself and feeling a fire rise within her. _Nothing and no one is going to stop me from returning to them, but I won’t let myself be turned into a mindless creature for the Capital’s entertainment because of it._

The light was always on her- this time, it was only going to get brighter, but it wouldn’t blind her.

_They have no idea what’s coming for them._

She had a purpose now, and she felt steadier, more in control because of it. She wouldn’t have time to write any letters, she knew as she was hustled away off the stage to the next step towards the forbidding future.

Instead, her family would watch her Reaping, and she knew that would believe in her as much as she needed to for herself.


	3. Porcelain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more reaping after James Madison's! Hopefully it isn't too hard to guess whose it will be! 
> 
> James Madison is- rather like John Laurens -a character whose personality varies from author to author, and I think my take can be considered a mix sorts.

**James Madison, District Eleven**

**~Reaping Day, District Eleven~**

It was always incredibly hot during the Reaping hours, when the sun was at its highest peak. Even when all they had to do was stand still the world wouldn’t give them a break. Neither would Ambrose, though that wasn’t his fault. 

"Does it hurt when they prick my finger?” He whispered, tugging on Madison’s sleeve.

“No,” he answered patiently. “It’s just a sting. It goes away quickly.”

_Just don’t look at the blood._

Ambrose didn’t look convinced, and he wasted no time in asking, “do I _have_ to stand by the other kids?”

“Yes,” Madison replied, sighing. “You’ll see everyone right after, I promise.”

_Even if it could be with tears on their eyes._

“What do I do if they call my name?” He demanded for the hundredth time, his brown eyes huge.

_You’ll die, I’d guess. Twelve years old from one of the poorest districts in Panem._

Madison didn’t let his worry enter his face, turning it away to cough. “They won’t,” he responded firmly.

Ambrose frowned, whispering, “how do you know?”

"Because I’ve been to a Reaping for five years and they’ve never called _my_ name,” he answered dryly. _And my name is in there 45 times now. Francis in 24. Yours in 8._

He had always wondered what had made his parents so desperate for kids when they lived in such horrible conditions. Hunger and heat and labor and Games. Catlett’s young death had been awful, and his younger brother had lived only for a day… some part of his mind wondered if in some way they were lucky. _They’ll never have to live through the injustices and cruelty of this world._ Still, he loved his siblings with all his heart, from little dark-haired Sarah to fourteen year old Francis whose eyes were too weary for his young age. _We all have to grow up fast here._

He covered his coughs with his sleeve, irritated and distracted. _Dumb coughs._ He had never had very good health, but it was always worst when he was facing strong emotion, like apprehension and frustratingly hot weather. _Dumb Reaping._

They shuffled up to the front of the line, and Madison held out his finger, stiffening at the sting and the red drop that welled, but he shrugged it off and gave Ambrose a significant look. The boy scowled back, but reluctantly held out his finger and gave a small jump as it was pricked and darted back to Madison’s side.

“Why do we have to that?” He whined quietly, staring at the blood with a frown.

“So they know that you came, I’d guess,” Madison shrugged. He nodded his head towards the twelve year olds close to them. “Now go over by them,” he instructed, “and we’ll see each other after.”

Ambrose hesitated, the usual fear flickering in his gaze and he looked back at Madison. “You’re _sure_ I’ll be fine?” He whispered, looking scared but hopeful.

 _How do I know it won’t be a lie?_ He wondered wearily, but he managed to give his brother a smile. “I’m absolutely certain you won’t be called,” he promised him steadily.

Ambrose nodded, finallyfinally  put at ease, then scampered over to the other kids and disappearing into their crowd.

Madison looked around, and saw that the rest of his family had already taken their spots, including Francis. _Guess he doesn’t need my encouragement anymore,_ he thought, feeling a bit sentimental, because for his first year Francis had done the same as Ambrose, pleading for a promise, but at fourteen, perhaps he had realized that it didn’t make a difference and he had to find some bravery inside himself.

Madison himself hadn’t found that courage, though. He just tried to stay indifferent because it was safer that way.

He released a breath, then joined his own age group of sixteen year olds, nodding politely to those he recognized, but otherwise avoiding direct gazes.

 _This will be over soon,_ he reassured himself. _Just get through until then._

He instead turned his attention to the stage, where their escort- a stoic faced Adamus Sutekh -had taken to stand.

Adamus wasn’t as crazily dressed as some of the other Capitol residents that James had seen on television. His long tangles of hair was dyed a dark midnight purple in sharp contrast to his pale skin, and his eyes were a coal-colored black. Also unlike some other Capitol residents- he never smiled. He never clapped or cheered or gushed or grinned. He looked as somber as they did, but at least he got straight to the point.

“Before we find out our tributes,” Adamus spoke into the microphone, his voice was cool and collected as his appearance, “we’ll watch the film our leaders have provided to remind us of the Capitol’s history.”

Madison had seen the clips for four years, and he carefully avoided his gaze from the screen, though he couldn’t stop the words that droned on about the past, the battle, the Dark Days, a d how thankful they should be that they were alive. His jaw clenched at that one and he shuddered against another cough. _Yeah. Thankful, lucky us._

"This is just a reminder of what happened when a battle that couldn’t be won was fought,” Adamus continued, though if anything there was an upset glint in his black eyes. “People die. But,” he turned towards the crystal balls, “some live. Our first tribute will be…” he reached in and swiftly snatched up a slip of paper. Madison didn’t feel much sorry for the girls, given that the only eligible of his siblings were both boys.

“Sally Hemings,” Adamus announced. “Would you please make your way to the stage?”

After a moment Madison saw a small thirteen year old girl hesitantly part from the crowd, and after shakily stepping onto the stage and turning around, Madison felt a pang of grief seeing her wide, fearful eyes, glittering with held back tears. She looked like a delicate thing, with skinny limbs the color of grain when the sun had just dipped below the horizon, and her long, glossy dark hair and held back with an orange ribbon.

“And our boys…” Adamus said next, and Madison tensed when his slender fingers locked around a slip of paper. What if it was Ambrose? Or Francis? _Do I volunteer?_ He wondered worriedly. He had been trying to force the possibilities back, but under the hot sun bearing down on them, a harsh tickle in his throat and the brilliant white of the paper, it suddenly slammed upon him that _just maybe-_  

"James Madison!”

Well, then again...

~…~…~…~…~

His mother was the first to come in, pulling him into a quick, tight embrace then holding him back than looked into his eyes with a sad smile.

“I tried my best to keep us alive,” Madison murmured, the words heavy and sorrowful in his mouth, because they had _still_ lost family and now he was leaving them. _And I’m not coming back._

“You’re braver than you know James,” his mother murmured in response, her eyes soft. “I couldn’t have asked for a better son.”

Madison’s heart jerked with a pang, like she had stabbed him, and his eyes burned. “Ke- keep watching out for them, will you? Since I- I won’t be here?”

“Of course,” she promised, her voice breaking and her eyes glimmering as she placed a kiss on his forehead and then swiftly exited the room, leaving him shivering against tears.

He didn’t get much time to clear his head, though, because all at once Nelly, Ambrose and Francis had rushed into the room, and Nelly had burst into tears in his arms, and Ambrose’s face was contorted into a trembling frown and Francis looked absolutely devastated, his eyes huge.

“You weren’t supposed to get picked!” Ambrose yelled at him, looking both furious and terrified. “You said everything would be okay-!”

“I never said that,” Madison smiled sadly, gently stroking Nelly’s long black hair as she cried into his shoulder. “I just said that you wouldn’t get picked, and you didn’t, didn’t I?”

“But- but-!” Ambrose spluttered in protest, frustration brimming in his eyes, but it was blurred out by tears as he too stumbled over to Madison and rested his forehead on his brother’s shoulder. “You _can’t_ leave,” he muttered, though his voice was dull.

"You’ll come back, right?” That was seven year old Nelly, looking up at him with a flushed face and sparkling eyes, her mouth twisted into a pleading frown.

Madison looked up, and caught sights with Francis, whose face was solemn, and suddenly so much like his. _He has to be the leader of them now, and he knows it,_ he thought regretfully, giving him a tiny, sad smile, and he didn’t respond to Nelly’s question.

Francis didn’t blink, just took a deep breath and muttered, “we’ll tell Father, William and Sarah that you said bye.”

Madison almost flinched. His father, worry faced and lean. William, who liked drawing shapes in the sandy dust outside, and Sarah, who giggled when they brushed grain strands against her soft skin. His face grew hot and his throat closed with emotion, his shoulderd shaking with a cough but he managed a few shuddering breaths and pressed his face into Nelly’s frizzy hair, fighting to calm himself.  

_Don’t cry. Not in front of them. Stay strong…_

“time’s up,” the Redcoat by the door growled, looking even more unfriendly with the red and black helmet over his face so Madison couldn’t gauge his expression. _Disgusted, probably,_ he thought bitterly.

“You heard him,” he sighed, kissing Nelly’s head and gently brushing Ambrose off him.

“But I-!” He protested, looking terrified, but when Madison shook his head and gave him an encouraging smile, his mouth snapped shut, his gaze full of unhappiness, but he took Nelly’s small hand, leading her out with soft coaxing words and dipping his head respectfully to the Redcoat, who didn’t react.

Francis hesitated, then suddenly darted forwards, wrapping his arms around his brother in a quick hug, and before Madison could react his brother placed something in his hand and raced away, and then Madison was alone once more.

He swallowed back his tears, overwhelmingly aware that that was the last time he would see his family again.

Instead, he looked down at his hand, and couldn’t help a choked laugh.

A porcelain white handkerchief, velvet soft and diamond-shaped.


	4. Aim for the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna Lovegood belongs to J.K Rowling. (Fun Fact: She's my favorite Harry Potter character!)
> 
> We've reached our last Reaping, starring Alexander Hamilton! After this comes the times in the Capital!
> 
> (Writing this chapter made me discover my love for Edward Stevens and Kitty Livingston.)
> 
> The rest of the tributes are down at the end~
> 
> TW for a suicide description, because that's part of Hamilton's past.

**Alexander Hamilton, District 12**

**~Reaping Day, District 12~**

Reaping day never ceased to both terrify and excite Alexander Hamilton.

Some people wouldn’t be able to understand the “excite” part of it. They wouldn’t be able to understand why he put his name in multiple times for the tesserae, even when he didn’t have a family to receive the extra rations for. Some would call him crazy. Some would call him ambitious. 

All of them would say that his past had something to do with it.

Alexander’s life so far, to be blunt, had sucked.

His parents had never been married. His mother had given birth to him and his brother, James Jr.

Shortly after their birth his father abandoned them, unable to afford his debt to the Redcoats and quickly after that District Twelve experienced a horrible stretch of disease that claimed many of their lives.

Alexander’s mother had been one of them.

He could still remember the glaze in her eyes, the painfully slow thumping of her heart beneath his ear. Still, she had smiled at him, full of love as weak as it had been, and had run a gentle, shaky hand through his hair. He had been with her when she died. Her skin had been cold and her heartbeat silent like a rock.

After she had passed away, he and James had been sent to live with a cousin, Peter Lytton. Only a few months later, Peter committed suicide. Alex remembered that day. Walking back through the door into the room, and then seeing his cousin’s body, punctured and bloody, his eyes glassy, just like his mother’s had been.

Just like that, he and James were without a home again, until this time, they were split up. Alex was taken to live with a kind merchant and James was taken to live with a carpenter.

He hadn’t seen his brother since. Last he had heard, six years ago, James had been caught by Redcoats trying to escape District Twelve, and he had been imprisoned. He hadn't received word of anything regarding his brother since.

Alex stiffened as his finger was pricked and he gave the redcoat a look nothing short of hate before he stepped away. They wouldn't do anything to him for it. It was Reaping Day after all, one of but their favorites.

And just a few months ago, District Twelve was slammed down by massive amounts of rain, which had turned into a hurricane. He still woke up from nightmares about it. The whiplash rain stinging his skin, the wind screaming in agony like the sky was being tortured, and crushing against him, the sickeningly yellow sky that glared above him like an ill omen and he shot awake right before he drowned.

Somehow, he had survived, and looking back on the incident… watching his district drowning in water and wind… there was some kind of inspiration to it. He had survived the illness that had killed his mother and he had survived the hurricane. Was it too much to dream that he could win the infamous Hunger Games?

Also, he was good at writing- that was just a fact. When he had written down his experiences of the hurricane, it had been found by the merchant and he had spread it around to everyone else in the Seam. Safe to say they had all been astounded. Most residents lacked average reading and writing skills.

He didn’t want his hands to be stained gray with coal dust, scraped up and bleeding. He didn’t want them to be covered in blood either, though. He wanted them to be touched with ink, nimble with a quill as he wrote and used words to change their lives.

But he also wanted to fight, because how could he change their lives if he was to always be trapped in the bleakness and hunger of his district?

With that thought in mind he wrote about the Capital. About their inability to care or have any shred of dignity and humanity. They let districts rot, let them die of sickness without lifting a finger to help, then watched as they struggled to pick up the pieces of their homes when they were destroyed by a hurricane. People read those ones too. They had watched when he received fifteen lashes across his back for speaking out against the Capital. Someone had informed them, because he had written the pamphlets anonymously.

Edward Stevens- his brother more or less -had been sitting by his bed when he woke up from sleep, the red marks raw and burning on his back. His dark eyes were shadowed as he held a pamphlet in his trembling hands. _“Life is fucked up,”_ he had said, his voice the most bitter and venomous Alex had ever heard it.

And then he had helped Alex write more.

Said Edward Stevens gave him a nod as Alexander slipped into place next to him. He raised an eyebrow at Alex's smile, his eyes already darkening with disappointment. “How many?” He muttered.

“30,” Alex replied with a nonchalant shrug, and he looked out into the crowd to avoid Ned's glare and pretended not to hear his muttered swear.

He caught Kitty Livingston's gaze across the clearing and winked. She grinned and blew him a kiss, still basking in the warmth of finally being out of the Reapings. He held his tongue to keep from chuckling as Edward elbowed him in the ribs.

“Quit flirting with Catherine,” he scowled. “Are you not the _least_ bit concerned with your probablity of being reaped?”

"You’re the only one who calls her ‘Catherine,’” Alex rolled his eyes. “You also know that I think of her as a sister, right? Besides,” he added quickly before Edward could protest, “getting reaped will be the luckiest thing that's happened to me.”

Ned's eyes widened with disbelief. “The ‘ _luckiest thing_ ’?” He spluttered indignantly. Alex laughed and looped an arm around his friend's neck and hugged him close.

"Aw, Ned,” he crooned, blinking up at him sweetly, “you know that you are, truly, the _best_ thing in my life-”

“Aw shut it, Hamilton,” Edward groaned, pushing him away, and Alex snickered as he saw Ned’s ears redden.

“Just telling the truth,” he whispered with a grin.

Edward glared at him, but it lacked frostiness. “This conversation isn’t over,” he started to hiss, but he was cut off by Luna Lovegood's humming into the microphone and they turned their attention to the stage to where the dreamy-eyed blonde stood. 

Luna Lovegood was, without a doubt, one of the most interesting people Alexander had ever encountered in his life.

She always wore the strangest attire he had seen. From blue and silver feathers to acorn earrings and leaves braided in her hair. One time she had worn a lion hat that actually _roared_.

Today, while her white shirt and black tie and blue plaid skirt was normal, she was wearing earrings shaped like radishes and pink winged glasses that were far from ordinary.

"Hello, hello,” she greeted them pleasantly. “Fair weather, isn't it?”

No response, just shuffling feet and stiff cracking as kids tugged on their nicer, rigid clothes.

Alex fingered his sleeve subconsciously at the thought. The soft blue checkered shirt wasn't his, because he had no money for that sort of expense, but rather it had been one of Edward's brothers’, one who had died in the Hunger Games.

Alex winced. It was no wonder why the other boy was worried about him getting reaped. 

Even though they weren't biological brothers, they frequently received comments on their strikingly similar appearances: tawny skin- though Edward's was a tone or two darker -lean frames, and long, dark hair.

However, Edward's eyes were a milky brown with gold speckles, and Alex's were an unusual indigo shade with lighter heather blue highlights.

And while Edward was polite and smiled only in the company of his close friends, Alex was bold and outspoken and took any opportunity to flirt and charm.

But they were a political force to be reckoned with. Add that with childhood friend Catherine “Kitty” Livingston’s stubbornness and flirtatious but gold-hearted character, and they had made quite a name for themselves. What would happen if he _did_ get reaped?

 _Well it'll be one year earlier than I would've volunteered,_ he thought dryly.  

Because he couldn't change the world from inside Twelve, even if Edward and Kitty helped write pamphlets with him. He didn't want to put them in the Capital's way, though. _If anything happens to them, it'll be on me._ Even when they said otherwise.

“... Elizabeth Sanders, may you join me on the stage?”

Alexander was jerked from his thinking state and silently scolded himself for drifting off as the girl obeyed Luna’s request, and he blinked in surprise as he recognized her.

Wiry, lean, with tan, sandy-colored skin, long black hair and a clever spark in her dark stony eyes. He had seen her around the Seam plenty of times trying to sell fur.

_She’s a fur trapper._

She would know how to be resourceful in any terrain, and she would know how to work with nature and not against it. She would know how to use weapons and snares because she used them to kill animals. _A hunter who knows how to socialize._ She was a survivor, but then again, so was he. She grew up in the woods, but he had grown up on the streets. Different experiences, same moral and lessons. _Skill. Endurance. Passion. Honor. Ambition._ Maybe they would get along.

 _Then again,_ he thought wryly, _that’s only if I get picked._

“What animals did you kill to wear that?” Luna asked her out of the blue, looking at her outfit with wide eyes.

Elizabeth Sanders stared at her in surprise, but she answered evenly, “a mix.”

Alex could tell. Her dress was a regular fashion with salmon-pink and white lines, but her boots were furry and she had feathered earrings.

Luna still looked bewildered but she replied a respectful, “okay. Huh.” Then she turned back to the crowd and gave her trademark dreamy smile like that interaction hadn’t happened.

“Now we’ll pick our boys…” Alex stiffened, his heartbeat accelerating as Luna picked up a slip and is quick, furious pulse was painfully throbbing his head. He was aware of Edward’s silence next to him, his brother’s eyes darkening in a futile attempt to drown out the rest of the quiet world.

“Alexander Hamilton, you’ve been chosen,” Luna announced cheerfully from stage, waving the white slip, and all the blood roaring in his ears and his frantic heartbeat fell down on him like a cold wave and he deeply exhaled in relief, his body still trembling.

“A-Alex,” Edward rasped his name in distraught, twisting to stare at him with overwhelming fear and horror.

Alex felt a strong surge of guilt and regret, but he whispered soothingly, “you’ll be able to say goodbye.” He beared a cocky grin and added, “you can say hi when I get back, too,” and before Ned could reply he darted away and made his way up stage, making sure to smile and wave to the crowd- some looking relieved, some looking tired, most with indifferent but hopeless expressions (Kitty looked pissed, though he was honored to see some pride and hope in her eyes) -he and stepped to Luna’s side, acknowledging Elizabeth with a dip of his head.

After a tense moment, she nodded back before sharply turning away.

 _Hmm. No alliances here, I guess._ He faced the crowd, and then it was his turn to get a question.

“Would you like to say anything?” Luna asked, and before he could even think about the possibility of “no” she held the mic to his face, her sweet blue eyes curious.

Alex stared at it, and then allowed himself a smile.

_I’ll take any chance I get._

“Thank you,” he smiled at her, and then lifted his eyes to the crowd, and they were entranced by the intensity in his indigo eyes, the ones luminous and full of an electrifying ambition that set their nerves crackling like sparks. 

"My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he spoke, and his voice rang confident and clear across all ears. “And there’s a million things I haven’t done…” he took a deep breath, and saw Edward looking up at him fear and hope, and Kitty gave him a sharp, encouraging smile. Warmth swelled in his chest, flooding him with confidence.

They were supporting him.

And so would many more.

“But just you wait,” he continued, grinning with the energy and fire of a hundred stars, and he extended his hand to the flaming blue sky like he was going to shoot the sun.

“Just you wait,” he whispered, and the words filled him with a surge of purpose, and he watched, his pride and ambition burning as Edward and Kitty simultaneously repeated his sign.

Then, slowly- with their eyes brimming with respect and hope -and like the first stars spreading across the darkening night sky, his people lifted their hands, too.

 _I’m not dying in the Games. I’m going to win._ His grin grew. _We’ll see how the Capital likes that._

 

District 1: John André, Elizabeth Schuyler

District 2: Thomas Jefferson, Martha Dandridge

District 3: John Laurens, Abigail Smith

District 4: George Washington, Angelica Schuyler

District 5: Benjamin Franklin, Betsy Ross

District 6: Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, (Marquis de Lafayette,) Adrienne de Noailles

District 7: Charles Lee, Dolley Todd

District 8: Hercules Mulligan, Theodosia Prevost

District 9: James Reynolds, Charlotte Frederick

District 10: Aaron Burr, Maria Lewis

District 11: James Madison, Sally Hemings

District 12: Alexander Hamilton, Elizabeth Sanders


	5. Talk on the Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter so far, but the next one is! (It’ll be posted on Friday) I just needed to whip out a chapter to introduce Thomas Jefferson’s character and mention some of the other tributes through his perspective.  
> Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake belong to Kass Morgan, author of The 100 series. (Yes, it was a book series first!)  
> Also, how interested are we in the news that Suzanne Collins is writing a Prequel for the Hunger Games Trilogy? I think it’s fascinating idea, and I’ll be sure to read it! ^ ^

**Thomas Jefferson, District 2**

**~Train Rides~**

It didn't feel any different stepping onto the train, but more reassuring, in a way. _One step closer to the Games,_ Thomas thought with a grin. _One step closer to my victory._

Martha Dandridge didn't look intimidated either, just wary.

“Pretty great, isn't it?” He asked her coyly.

She gave him a dry look. “Yes, I'm positively _bursting_ with excitement,” she answered in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can't kill anyone _soon enough_.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and pointedly left her side to explore the train. Why did people linger on the idea on killing other people? It was a Game. They were the pieces needed to win, and the prize was worth any sacrifices. _Fame. Money. Glory._ He could make himself known to the world. Only 23 people needed to die for it to happen. _Survival of the fittest._ He liked that rule. It was straightforward, and it was something that could be prepared for and achieved.

Besides, he didn't plan on making any friends, not even with Martha. But then again, he mused wryly, she didn't seem interested in being his friend, either. _She'll grow to like me, though._ When he wanted to (which was usually, he liked to admit), he could be incredibly charming. He knew his natural, handsome flair would be useful for the interviews and sponsors, and could be used for intimidation among the other tributes. Part of him was excited to meet them, though the other part reminded him that they didn't matter because they would be dead for him to win.

_Take it stride by stride. Make each moment powerful._

So he scoured the train. It was more comfortable and shiny than the most glamorous houses in Two. (Which, unfortunately, were not his. That would change once he got back from the Game.) Large, thick glass windows and a smooth, sharp silver interior for the walls; Plush gray couches, velvet blue carpets and soft yellow lights lined across the ceiling. The crispness and radiance sent energy crackling through him like electricity, renewing him with a fresh surge of purpose. He returned to the main compartment, and was pleased to see that Martha, too, seemed to have let her guard down a bit to admire her new surroundings. This was something she hadn’t experienced before either, but it had to have been something she had fantasized about like he had.

Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake, on the other hand, looked less impressed and even more distant and dismal than when he had first met them outside the train. They had been on it so many times, it probably didn’t hold the same breathtaking appeal anymore.

Thomas rolled his eyes as he saw them sit down on the couch, weary-faced and eyes dark. They weren’t even _trying_ to act like they cared. _What could they teach me?_ He wondered dismissively. He had seen their Reapings, and it had comprised of the Career Alliance, killing a few tributes (some out of revenge), playing a few backstabs and mercy kills, and done, they won the Games. He saw it all the time, and it wasn’t very interesting. Their arenas had been similar, too- an overgrown, merciless forest with a lake holding a massive eel-like beast; the other also had contained mountains where ferocious creatures that resembled humans had lived. He needed something interesting in his arena, or his story, or he would just be another forgotten victor.

_“I know you’ll make us proud, Thomas,”_ his mother had smiled at him, wistfulness in her eyes. _“Your father is watching us, I’m sure. He always believed in you.”_ Peter Jefferson had, Thomas knew. His siblings had great faith in him as well- Jane had given him a trusting nod, Mary had ruffled his wild hair playfully like he was eleven rather than seventeen, Elizabeth had shot him a smile and Martha had hugged him. They were all counting on him, and his talents.

_I can’t let them down._ He took a subtle calming breath and then dropped gracefully onto the couch so he could smile at his mentors. “Any suggestions for once we’re in the arena?” He asked cheerfully.

Clarke and Bellamy exchanged weary looks (which were so obvious that _yes,_ he noticed), and Clarke turned her stony green gaze on him. “Don’t underestimate your opponents,” she told him flatly. “Just because you’re from a Career District doesn’t mean you’re automatically in the Victor, or even in the top five.”

“Yeah, that’s why other districts have victors,” he muttered under his breath. Clarke glared at him frostily but continued, “each tribute has an ability from their district. Fours are good with water, Sevens fare well in forests, Elevens are resourceful with nature, etcetera. Everyone will have advantages as well as disadvantages in any arena you are put in.”

_The Arena._ Thomas gave it some more thought. What would it be this year? The citizens of Panem seemed to enjoy a very nature-themed arena, because it was a unpredictable environment. But they could be interested in trees for only so long, and then they would want diversity.

“You should play up your talents,” Bellamy added, running a hand through his curly black hair. “Don’t try to become an expert of any weapons in three days, but look around at some of the other courses, too. It’s important to recognize edible and poisonous plants and their properties.”

Thomas frowned. _Eating_ plants? He would die first.

“What weapons can you use, or skills that you have?” Clarke asked, and it sounded so practiced and distant that Thomas got the feeling she was growing tired of routine. He held his tongue against a retort at her tone.  _It’s not my fault she doesn’t give a damn about us. Can’t she at least try?_

“I’m good with swords,” Thomas answered brusquely. “Long distance weapons aren’t hard, either.”

“I use knives,” Martha replied, quiet and brisk.

“Good, those are common weapons found in the arena,” Clarke nodded at her (ignoring Thomas _again,_  he could add).

But he hid his irritation and shot Martha a thumbs up and exaggeratedly mouthed _'good_.' He laughed genuinely when she flipped him off with a narrow look, but he caught the small smile that twitched her mouth. Warmth crackled through him as she let her cold guard slip, and he turned back to his mentors, grinning. She couldn't keep her aloofness around him, but he liked that she tried. He liked her, period. If, for whatever reason, he didn't win, he hoped that she did.

He wasn't surprised to see that Clarke had retreated even further into her dark shell, and as the train picked up speed, the colors flashing outside, the light speared half her face and left the other side shadowed. Her eyes were still the same vivid green. “Just don’t trust anyone,” she muttered, her hollow voice finally touching him with a chill. “Not even yourself.”

She lifted her eyes, and they met his. For real, this time, and he saw the coldness there, sharply contrasting to the quiet fire in Bellamy’s and the steady light in Martha’s and the burning blaze in his. They were a warning, and he leaned back and pretended like it didn’t bother him.

Like it didn’t make unease curl in his stomach.

Like it didn’t make his head hurt.

_Don’t think. You aren’t like them. You’re different. You_ are. _You_ have _to be._

He took a hidden breath and after a tense beat Bellamy suggested, “how about we look at the other Reapings so we can see how the other districts are matching up?”

“Sure,” Martha said gruffly, growling the word, and he wondered if she was growing unnerved, too.

Clarke drew back against the couch too, silent, though her eyes urged him, _no one escapes._

He didn’t want to know what that meant, so he gritted his teeth and told himself, _ignore her. She’s broken. I won’t be. I’ll prove her wrong._ That last thought brought back a rush of his former self-assurance  and comfort, so he kicked his feet up on the table, resumed his confident smile and pretended not to notice Clarke’s disappointed glare, instead giving the T.V his full attention.

He watched as a slim brunette boy by the name of John André took the stage, giving a wave and taking a bow at his District with dark eyes the color of honey while the crowd cheered for him, clearly smitten. Thomas’s smile grew, curious. One of his Career Allies. He looked like he might be a bit of a crowd suck-up, but his lean frame and the dangerous spark in his eyes made it clear that he would be essential to the Career Alliance.

The girl- Elizabeth Schuyler -looked sweet as she smiled at the crowd, with a round face and crystal blue eyes that were accentuated by her dark brown hair. She didn’t look like much of a fighter. But she was a Career too, so she must have had training like he had.

He grinned as he watched himself step on stage, pride blooming in his chest and diminishing his last nerves as he observed himself walking with his head held high and a radiant, alluring smile on his face. _Perfect._

District Three sported a boy named John Laurens with curly copper hair in a ponytail, a face dusted with freckles and an unwavering, small smile. The girl had generic dark brown hair and hazel-green eyes, with a much lighter smatter of freckles.

They were nothing out of the ordinary, but he liked the looks of Four’s male, an 18 year old named George Washington, dressed sharply with a stony expression, his skin tone a few shades lighter than Thomas’s own. He looked powerful and sturdy.

The female tribute surprised him- Angelica Schuyler was Elizabeth’s sister. Mayor Schuyler had daughters everywhere, it seemed. He liked her- she had a fire in her eyes and she all but glared into the crowd. She would be useful as an ally.

He didn’t particularly care, though, for District 5’s Benjamin Franklin, thin and lanky with almond-shaped blue eyes and long, blonde, strawberry tinted hair. He didn’t smile, instead looking unsure and wary. _He won’t last past the Bloodbath_.

His partner, a simple girl named Betsy Ross, had her dark brown hair cropped spikely under her ears, and her silver eyes unnerved him as they stared expressionlessly and blankly ahead, ignoring everything around her.

District Six looked well off. He especially liked the boy, Lafayette, who had a confident grin and winked at the crowd with bedazzling dark blue eyes with a thin gold ring around his pupils.

District Seven featured a peculiar boy, slender with cold gray eyes and the hair on his half his head was cut short, the other side long and curled and covering his eye. Jefferson wasn’t sure what to think of Charles Lee’s outward personality. Distant, he guessed. To block out his fear, perhaps?

The girl was a lean, with curly blonde hair but a face that could be lost in the crowd. He didn’t bother giving her much thought.

Hercules Mulligan was broad-shouldered and sturdy, scowling quietly with glittering eyes. He looked surprisingly strong for a District Eight tribute. Most of the clothes-makers were skinnier with shallow skin.

The girl, Theodosia Prevost, had her head lifted, her deep brown eyes glittering and her dark-ringlet framed face was unsmiling.

None of the District Nine tributes looked interesting, just average and normal. _Boring._

District Ten’s male was Aaron Burr, who stood politely with his hands behind his back, his dark eyes flickering over the crowd though Jefferson couldn’t gauge their expression. Nervous, probably. Apprehensive. He smirked. He should be. A well-mannered farm boy wouldn’t last long against him.

The girl, Maria Lewis, was real beautiful: creamy brown skin, luscious chocolate curls and sapphire eyes... he was curious to see how she would do, especially for a fifteen year old.

Nothing out of the ordinary came out of District 11. Just a slight, dark-skinned boy with worry lit eyes that Jefferson couldn’t tell if they were gray or brown. He didn’t bother smiling, just nodded his head at those watching him. Huh. He didn’t look much like a fighter, or like he had much advantages at all. _Whatever._ Jefferson leaned back, pushing his unease and his curiosity of what James Madison's smile would look like away.

The girl was Sally Hemings, skinny with wide eyes and visibly biting her lip with a glimmer in her eyes. Jefferson shook his head, scornful. _Really?_ If she was going to cry, she should do it _off_ camera.

Then District 12’s male was a rugged looking kid with his brown hair tied back, his eyes raking over the crowd.

He wouldn’t have caught Jefferson’s attention- because since when did a _12_ give anyone any trouble? -except that there was a curve of a smile to his mouth, and his indigo eyes held an ambitious twinkle, like they burned from the inside. And when he pointed a finger victoriously to the sky and the others echoed the motion, he narrowed his eyes, aware of Clarke’s silent gaze burning into him, questioning him.

Maybe Alexander Hamilton wouldn’t be so easy to subdue.


	6. Stay Anchored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s some “Announcements!”:  
> 1.) I apologize for forgetting to say this last chapter, but happy Pride Month!!  
> 2.) Jacob Black and Alice Cullen belong to Stephanie Meyer, author of the Twilight Series!  
> 3.) Ahem; I’d like to request more works regarding the Hercules/Cato friendship, because I love it! Also I apologize if the number of POVs is confusing- there’s only two more, and some will definitely be getting more spotlight than others. (Especially since- you know -they’ll be dying off in the Hunger Games...)  
> 4.) I’d also like to point out the number of AMAZING woman in Hamilton’s era that never got mentioned in the musical or many of his stories, and some- like Theodosia -are barely touched upon. They all deserve credit, even when my own story doesn’t have the time to reflect on them all. In other words, go write about them! Learn about their stories, and post about them here. I can name many off the top of my head that I might write short stories about, but discover them for yourself. The Schuyler Sisters were fierce and inspiring... but there were many more as beautiful and independent.  
> 5.) Today is the first day of summer, and Theodosia Burr Alston’s Birthday!

**Theodosia Prevost, District Eight**

**~ Arrival at the Capital ~**

Theodosia had never wanted to be chosen for the Games.

No one from Eight in their right mind wanted to, but she had to admit that she had been eager, in some regard, to leave her home district. She had been able to handle spending hours upon hours meticulously stitching clothes in factories, and the ache in her arms and numb pain in her fingers had gradually eased away over the unrelentless routine. She had grown used to the subconscious hunger in her stomach that never left, only subsided or came back persistently until it was just a never-ending gnaw that was just another dullness that was a part of her life.

But that was what she had been relieved to leave behind. The dullness. District Eight was colorless and bleak. Desolate and smokey. It was all just muted tones of gray and beige that kind of mixed together into one boring lifeless color. Theodosia hated it. Even the grass and the sky were somber with gray tones.

The only taste of color she got was from sewing and stitching clothes. Every splash of color upon the fabric was like a dazzle of hope, reminding her that not everything was dead. Her time so far, though, had been an odd mix of such, because every blaze and glitter and explosion of color warned her that, very possibly, she might soon be dead.

 _Live today like you’ll die tomorrow, as they say,_ she thought wryly. The Games had put a whole new perspective on that ancient saying. _At least I have a few more days, for sure. I’ll try to enjoy it, but I’m not making any promises._ Because how much could you enjoy a new experience that was grooming you up to kill or be killed? She would be lucky to get any sleep on the fluffy, luxurious bed she had been provided. They were so soft and plushy that it was uncomfortable and made it hard to sleep on.

 _That and the incessant reminder that my death will arrive soon. Are they aware that by giving us these brief gifts and refinements that they’re just making it harder to savor what life we have left?_ She finished up lacing her boots and stood up, rubbing the fabric of her sleeve between her fingers. It was like velvet, firmer and softer than any material she had been lucky enough to wear back at Eight. _Too bad it’s gray. Then again,_ she thought dryly, _it might be too soon for myself to be wishing for my time to be served to the Capital as a colorful treat._

“We’ve arrived!” Alice called from the train’s main apartment, and even behind a door and walls her voice twinkled clear and bright like bells that could be heard a mile away.

Sighing, Theodosia rubbed her ears and exited her room into the train’s main compartment.

Alice- small, with porcelain pale skin, delicate features, golden eyes, and jaggedly cut black hair -was standing proud and grinning, and Hercules was leaning against the wall and gave her a small smile of greeting.

Theodosia gave him a quick, forced smile in return before looking away. Hercules Mulligan seemed like a good person, steady and warm-hearted, but she didn’t want to be close to anyone when she would be shoved into an arena with twenty two other people who wanted her dead. She would be playing this game solo.

Their mentor, Jacob Black, was munching on food from where he was reclining on the couch, his expression as dark and intent and distant as they had been yesterday.

Theodosia forgot to care, though, when she saw the food again. She recalled how it had felt seeing all of the variety of food for the first time, and the second time was no different. Seeing all of the crystal colors and satisfying assortments made her pulse rate pick up. The shiny red apples, the fresh orange carrots, the sizzling, spicy meats, succulent fruits, the warm, sweet golden-brown bread, the sugared chocolate-chip muffins and the intricately designed cakes decorated with pastel colored fondant and icing… that wasn't even the half of the options, and already she was feeling dreamy and hungry just by looking at it.

“We’ve made it!” Alice sang by the door, giving her tributes a grin. “This is where the real fun begins! At the Capital!“

Theodosia and Hercules exchanged reflecting dubious glances, and she was relieved to see that he looked as coolly unhappy as she felt.

“Quit jabbering Alice, you’re not convincing anyone,” Jacob grumbled, and when he stood up to open the door Theodosia was once again taken aback by how tall and broad he was, with eyes as cool and piercing as a wolf’s. “We’re going to the Training Center, which is where you’ll be staying prior to the Game,” Jacob told them and he stepped off the train into the blinding light of the real world.

 _“Prior to the Game.”_ Like it was a temporary home and there was nothing else to it.

 _“Prior to the Game.”_ Casual words, insensitive and borne from his own time in the Games.

Theodosia clenched her jaw and briskly followed him outside, blinking furiously against the sudden burning of light. But then her vision adjusted, and she drew in a surprised breath.

It was a sea of exploding, popping colors and shining silver buildings that reached for the endless expanse of blue sky. The streets were filled with Capitolites, and she outright stared at some of their clothing choices. Some clothes were thin and showed intricately tattooed skin, others were draping and flowed behind in lengthy dresses or coats. Each was an explosion of color, from shocking yellows, frosted pinks, season greens, rich blues and streaks of gold. Haircuts ranged from spiked Mohawks, shaved designs, hair cut short or reaching far down backs, each in a different shade of color. Makeup ranged from powdered faces, lips and eyebrows of unusual colors, vivid eyeshadow and eyes with contacts of inhuman colors. It was... in some way, kind of beautiful. Each person with a unique look.

It was also overwhelming.

And repulsive.

Theodosia looked pointedly straight ahead and refused to meet any eyes as Jacob led the way to the Training Center.

It was horribly noisy, too. Panem’s citizens shrieked and shouted like the spotlight was always on them, whistling or giving high-pitched laughs that made their faces scrunch up and look beastly.

“Good God,” Hercules muttered from behind her. “Can they get anymore obnoxious?”

Theodosia snorted in amusement to herself at his comment, and she could tell by Alice’s little _humph!_ -sigh that their escort didn’t agree. Which made her more relieved for Hercules’s presence.

“Don’t tell them that or they’ll cry and ruin their extensive makeup,” she muttered back. She heard him chuckle in response and she smiled. She admired him for that. He was too stable to let himself by swayed like herself. She just wanted to get away from all of it as soon as possible. Maybe her dull-colored clothes were some sort of anchor, as painfully reassuring and depressing as the thought was. It kept her from being caught in the tides of irrediscents and sirens and reminded her that she different. Blandly, intriguingly different.

“Ok, we’re here,” Jacob announced in a bored tone, and Theodosia looked up, her mouth dropping this time.

The Training Center was _huge_. Towering might be a better word, though. Light reflected from its many windows above her down like multiple small suns, and it made her squint to take in the building’s height and dazzling exterior of white walls and clear glass panes.

“We’re on room eight,” Alice informed them, and she giggled airily to herself like it was a joke, in a way that Theodosia had grown all too accustomed to. Without meaning to she met Hercules’s gaze with a “how can she be serious?” expression and he gave her a sympathetic, similarly weary “some people” look that reluctantly comforted her, because she didn’t need to suffer through Jacob’s aloofness and Alice’s childish antics alone.

Between the colors, the noise, the lights, her mentors, and trying to keep her sanity already, she had to find some way to stay rooted to the ground. Even though that ground would soon be ripped away and leave her on a bloody battlefield.

**~ … … … ~**

All thoughts flew from Theodosia’s mind as they were led to their rooms.

The living room had bare white walls, a fluffy white C-shaped couch and a round glass table; a chandelier glittered from the ceiling, casting pale rainbow rays on the pale walls. There was a huge rectangular T.V- turned off -on a pale gray shelf direct from the couch, and a glass fireplace below the T.V.

And she had thought the _train_ was glamorous.

Curious, Theodosia picked up a pad-like device that was on the glass table and tapped its screen. She nearly jumped when it blared with light and a series of white dots were lined up in a square on the screen. She glared at it with distaste, flustered by her startled response.

 _They just_ have _to make everything difficult for us. Like I’m going to want to learn how to use this device when I have other things to focus on._

 _Still..._ she paused, then hesitantly clicked one of the white circles.

This time it was Hercules who jumped back as the fireplace suddenly roared with flames, blistering amber in color and howling in its glass cage. “This is unnecessary,” he complained, stuttering a bit over the first few words as he quickly regained his cool composure.

Theodosia chuckled. “Guess they want us to get used to fire in case they decide to set a wildfire in the arena,” she replied dryly.

Hercules smiled. “In that case, let's burn down the whole center and see how many get out alive,” he responded joked wryly.

Theodosia snickered, and then she heard footsteps and turned.

Jacob was back, and at his side was a boy who looked only two or three years older then Theodosia herself.

His skin was dark and his eyes were a fawn-tan color of the clothes she used to sew. He looked a bit hollow and lean, with tired dark crescents under his eyes, and he didn’t smile. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt, black pants and shoes and had gold makeup of thin painted lines on his face, like a winged mask.

“This is Cato,” Jacob introduced the boy with a wave of his hand like he was showing off an award he had won years ago but still had some sentimental feelings for. “You might seem him around sometimes, so I just wanted to let you know in case you thought about screaming about the stranger on our floor.”

Theodosia gave her mentor a weird look. _Sure. Screaming. That’s sounds realistic._ Anyways, why couldn’t Cato have just told her himself? _He always has to be so elusive._

“I’m Theodosia,” she told him, shrugging off her unease, and held out her hand. Cato stared at the gesture with nervous eyes, and then shot Jacob an accusatory look to which Jacob rolled his sepia-toned eyes in response.

_Okay...?_

Now she was confused. She hesitantly pulled back her hand, feeling her face grow a bit flushed as she glared at Jacob. “What?” She asked defensively.

Jacob shrugged. “Cato can’t speak. He’s an Avox.”

Theodosia stared at him, baffled. _An Avox?_ She didn’t know what the word meant, but it sent a child own her spine. ‘Avox’ sounded cold. Forbidden. Like a disease. _He used it as a noun._

She blinked, and realized Hercules was at her side and... signing? With his hands?

Cato stared at her friend- her _tribute partner_ -with eyes huge in surprise, and then a small smile twitched across his weary face and he signed back, with elegant flicks and motions of his fingers and hands in a communication Theodosia couldn’t decipher.

Hercules’s eyes lit up and his grin grew at something Cato told him, and then suddenly Alice flew into the room, her golden eyes frantic.

“Jacob, _what are you doing?_ ” She hissed, grabbing onto Cato’s arm and startling the boy. She looked the most angry Theodosia had ever seen, her delicate face twisted in fury. “They aren’t supposed to know-!”

Jacob laughed, and Theodosia was struck by how humorless and dark it was.

“I don’t care, Alice,” he replied bitterly. “Only one is coming back, if one at all.”

“You don’t get to decide-!” Alice started to snarl, and the ferocity that accompanied it sharply contrasted Alice’s beautiful, young features but Jacob cut her off, turning back to glare at Theodosia and Hercules

“This life isn’t fair,” he growled at them. “And you can’t stray out of line, or-” he nodded at Cato, who appeared suddenly uncomfortable and looked down at his fidgeting fingers “-they’ll do something like cut out your tongue because they’re _monsters_.“

Jacob’s voice ended in a venomous spit, his anger making his dark irises seem to swell and swallow the whites of his eyes. At his words her blood ran cold and her pounding heart became the loudest ringing in her ears.

She heard Hercules suck in a sharp breath as the realization of Cato’s mute state dawned on them.

With Jacob’s gaze burning into hers, her resolve turned to stone.

Jacob didn’t believe in them. He didn’t believe in anything anymore. She didn’t know what had happened to him in the arena, but she was damn sure now.

Nothing- and no _one_ -would control her.


	7. Robots and Dolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson belong to Glee.  
> Okay, so typically I see John Laurens written as one of these three examples: the jerk in a toxic relationship with Alexander, scarred by the hurt he receives from his abusive father; shaken and distant and hurt from the pain he receives from said father; or a sweet, compassionate and loyal companion to his closest friends. It’s fantastic that his character doesn’t range from too many, so that way it’s easier to find the version you want to read about- my goal is to also write him with the recklessness and pride he is depicted with in historical text, because I feel that’s true to his personality. But who am I kidding? He’ll probably end up as a mix of the last two examples despite my attempts!  
> Also yes, I’m playing the pronouns game! I won’t respond to any guesses of who the two characters are so that way I don’t spoil anything ^ ^  
> John’s father- Henry Laurens- isn’t physically abusive in my story because I haven’t found evidence that he was. (He is, however, a bit mentally/emotionally abusive) If anyone has proof that his father /was/ physically abusive, please let me know!  
> WARNING for Swearing and a bit of internalized Homophobia!

**John Laurens, District Three**

**~ Chariot Prep ~**

Laurens hadn’t cried when he was picked for the Games.

He had smiled for the cameras like a good tribute when District Three’s escort Kurt called his name, and he had shaken hands with Abigail Smith before the Redcoats took him aside for his final goodbyes with his family.

He hadn’t cried when Martha threw her arms around his neck and sobbed. He had hugged his sister close and let her russet curls of hair billow in his face as she begged him to return home. _“You have to come back, Jack.”_ She knew he couldn’t make any promises, and he hadn’t, but he had told her that he would try.

_“I’ll do my best, Martha. Love you.”_

_“Love you.”_

She was too young for him to leave. She was only twelve, still with many more Reapings to go.

His father had come in and looked him in the face with steady eyes the color of oak bark. _“I know you’ll make us proud,”_ he smiled, one of his few, but it had looked sad. Laurens had never been the perfect son. From his disinterest in jobs his father deemed important to his disinterest in women. He pointed out ones with braided hair, ones with sun-kissed skin, ones wearing jewelry. _“There are so many beautiful girls out there, Jack. You can make one very happy.”_

_Sorry dad, that hadn’t worked out-_

He was pretty sure he hadn’t cried yet because in some ways he was thankful to have left Three behind. The only thing he cared about there was Martha. The rest were painful memories, holding him back.

_“Sorry. This can’t-“_

At least with all the excitement of arriving at the Capital it had been made easier to forget those memories. Kurt already had everything planned, and he kept him and Abigail on a tight schedule.

“The Chariot Rides are tonight, and you’ll be meeting your stylists shortly,” he addressed them with a small clap of his hands and a glitter in his eyes after they had been worn away painfully by their prep teams.

Laurens didn’t mind Kurt. He was brisk and frequently got annoyed at little things, but he was honest with them and answered any questions they had with a clear gaze. Also, his hair was rainbow dyed. He won Laurens’s respect for that. But then again, being a Capitolite meant you didn’t need to be afraid of expressing yourself.

That was the one thing he yearned for, because John Laurens was gay, and that just wasn’t something you highlighted about yourself in the districts. It made you a target, a freak, and a ghost, all at the same time.

He never asked his father about it, because that would only raise suspicions or disgust. He would be read like a book, and then his pages would be burned.

He had told Martha, though, and his little sister hadn’t even batted a blue eye. His mother had had blue eyes. Laurens had his father’s golden brown, though his own held a sliver of green.

 _“You’re still my brother,”_ she had shrugged. _“What difference does who you love make?”_

Apparently it made a difference to everyone but his sister, still too sweet and young for the world.

Laurens was jolted from his thoughts as Abigail asked, “What will they do with us?” He didn’t mind Abigail. either. She didn’t have any unusual features going for her, unlike Laurens’s freckled face and wild copper curls he had to tame with a ponytail. She was slim with creamy skin, her soft, dark brown hair winded in a braid and her eyes the color of mossy bark. Soft, but observant. And her voice was quiet, but steady and thoughtful.

He couldn’t see her killing anyone- but then again, what _did_ he know about her? Who was he to judge?

“They’re the ones who assemble your outfits throughout your stay at the Capital,” Kurt replied without a hint of disdain at a question whose answer he knew off the top of his head. “They create your Chariot Ride costumes, the outfits you wear to the interviews, and they’ll be with you when you’re transported to the Arena.”

Right. The Arena.

He rubbed his copper bracelet, the one Martha had given to him as his token. It was almost the exact shade of her hair.

_“Come back.”_

He was going to try, for her. He would try for himself, too. Not for his father, whose approval he could never seem to gain. His heart constricted. _For-?_ Maybe. If he did get back.

He took a deep breath, and raised his eyes to see Kurt observing him with a tilted head.

“They won’t turn us into anything crazy, right?” He asked.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Depends what you imagine ‘crazy’ as,” he replied logically. “They’re going to do whatever it takes to make you noticeable.”

‘Noticeable’ meant a lot of things. Laurens had seen wild and ‘imaginative’ outfits throughout the Chariot Rides, from cows to torches to cakes. Three had it pretty easy, thankfully, being the technology district. Usually they were just adorned with lights.

“Long as ‘noticeable’ doesn’t turn us robots,” he muttered, and realized the word had double meanings. How philosophical. He had lived like one most of his life, except for those few moments-

“I hate robots,” Abigail said suddenly. “Too many wires.”

He glanced over at her in surprise, and they met eyes. Her expression was unhappy, but she managed a wry tilt of her mouth at him, like she had the same thoughts. He felt a swell of gratitude at her attempt of peace- he liked that she was watching him rather kindly, instead searching him for flaws that she could use to her advantage. He had too many of those.

“I hate dolls,” he replied, not letting himself stop to think about his response. “Too many costumes.” Now they both smiled, and he winked, and she winked, and he felt a bit better.

“Okay, now’s the time,” Kurt announced, and suddenly the escort was leading him away to a different room before he could say bye to Abigail.

“Wait, why are you coming with me?” He frowned before he could rethink his choice words.

To his surprise, Kurt gave him an informal, shy smile. “I want to say hi to your stylist,” he admitted. “He’s a really great guy.” His smile grew. “I think you two will get along great.”

Laurens didn’t have time to ponder on what that could mean before Kurt closed the door behind them into a small, silvery white room.

The man who jumped up from his seat with the huge smile on his face and had dyed, dark blue hair and a kaleidoscope of violet eyes must’ve been his stylist.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you, John Laurens,” he greeted him warmly, shaking his hand. “My name is Blaine Anderson.”

“Uh, hello,” Laurens muttered back, taken by surprise.

However, he was chucked off the surprise spectrum into stunned silence when Kurt darted past him and gave Blaine a kiss, and then he pulled back and the two grinned at each other like two love-struck dorks.

_Wait._

_What?_

His thoughts fell behind his mind and formed slow from confusion like molasses and time froze painfully.

Was that-?

Did he just see-?

Boy and boy.

The gears of his mind clattered and struck wincing blows but couldn’t move.

_No fucking way._

Did he imagine that?

_No._

He couldn’t have.

_Right?_

That wasn’t something people did.

That wasn’t right.

That was immoral.

That wasn’t love.

That was repulsive.

That wasn’t clean.

That was-

Those were his father’s words.

Not his.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Laurens,_ and when he gave a hard blink he was back in the present and the couple was watching him for a reaction.

“Do you have a problem with us?” Kurt asked him.

 _“Us.”_ Laurens had given up that naive claim many summer nights ago.

Kurt didn’t sound defensive or sharp. His tone was almost... cool. Like he would be disappointed if he answered “yes.” _God. The irony of that._

He didn’t want to disappoint or cause confusion as he was faced with their intense gazes, shuddering to his bones, warning him against a lie, but his father warning him against the truth, so he tripped over his words as he stammered, “I- uh- no, no problem- I- I mean- _I’m_ gay, actually, um, so it’s all fine, really-“ he wired his jaw shut after that, horror rapidly washing over him in a cold flood, and he lost all feeling except for the raw cuts in his throat and pain pulsing in his head and stifling cold of his breaths.

_Fuck._

Did he really just-?

_After so many years-?_

“Oh,” Kurt replied in a breath, surprise- and sympathy, of all things -dawning in his eyes. “Sorry for... that, then.” He smiled sheepishly “Just had to make sure.”

 _“Yeah, I get it,”_ the words never came. “‘Kay,” He rasped instead, and his gaze found interest on the white floor while his ears rang.

_I’m gay._

_No. I’m not._

_Yeah. I am._

_You’re not. You just want attention._

_I am._

_You’re lying to yourself._

_I am._

_You’re mistaken._

_I am._

_You’re a mistake._

_“Sorry. This can’t-“_

_“You can’t-”_

“See you later, John,” Kurt said quietly, hesitantly giving him a reassuring touch on the shoulder, and jolting him from the agonizing thoughts and emotions that drew blood.

And then Kurt was gone, and he was left with Blaine, and all those thoughts rushed to piece themselves together into words as Blaine, his stylist, a person who could determine his future, looked him over.  

“Well, that gives me an idea for your Interview Outfit-“ Blaine started, but Laurens hurriedly cut him off, wincing.

“Please don’t make make it sparkly and rainbow,” he begged. “That’s not what I want everyone to see.”

Blaine blinked at him in surprise. “Well I wasn’t thinking of that extreme, but why?” He asked incredulously. “You’re in the Capital now, no one will judge you for it.”

Laurens felt his breathing quicken and pressure throb behind his eyes. “My father will,” he whispered strickenly. “Everyone at home will.” His stomach tightened and his chest hurt. “And the other tributes.”

Blaine looked troubled now, and concerned. “You can’t hide yourself, John,” he replied gently. “I know that hurts more than expressing and being comfortable with yourself.”

“I’m not comfortable with being discriminated on my sexuality!” He snapped back, his voice brimming with frustration.

_Tell him tell him tell him._

“I don’t want to be a target! I don’t want pity sponsors, or people to think, ‘the gay tribute,’ before they think ‘John Laurens’!” His voice was trembling now. His father would be so disappointed. _He_ would be disappointed. _She_ would be disappointed. “I don’t even know if I’m going to survive-!”

Great. He couldn’t last five minutes before breaking down in self-pity.

_Fucking fantastic-!_

“Hey, it’s ok,” Blaine reassured him, and Laurens couldn’t bother to manage a surprised flinch as his stylist gave him a hug.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Blaine apologized softly. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

_Because my life is already screwed. Because I’m_ _in the Games. Because I’m as good as dead and my life is wasted._

The thoughts made his knees weak and his eyes sting with heat and tears.

“I’m going to die,” he mumbled, and fought to take in a shaky breath and blink back against the tears. “C- Can we just work on this- together?”

“Of course,” Blaine soothed him empathetically, carefully stepping back to look into his eyes with earnestness. “I won’t force you into anything, alright?”

Laurens nodded, and wiped away at his tears as he tried to stifle his embarrassment. “Okay,” he agreed quietly.

Blaine observed him thoughtfully. He must’ve seen something in him, something he believed in, because he laughed gently.

“I think Panem will like you, John Laurens,” he grinned. “I know it’ll be hard... but do you want them too?”

He thought about it for a moment. The arrogant and ignorant Capital citizens. The other tributes, hellbent on his death for their survival. It was all imminent, though the path to get there was overgrown with thorns.

He didn’t want to be the Capital’s robot or Fate’s doll. He just wanted to live and die as himself, flawed as he was. Better to be human than machine.

He nodded, and latched onto those threads of confidence, pulling them closer, driving out the others, taking a deep breath.

John Henry Laurens over District Three Male.

“I do,” he answered with a smile touched with a coy edge. “And it’ll be as myself.”


	8. Traits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Worthington (Number Nine) belongs to Pittacus Lore, author of the Lorien Legacies series  
> Yes, I made sure to post this chapter on the anniversary of James Madison’s death. There’s two deaths celebrated next week, and another death celebrated after that! I guess summer is a good time to write a Hamilton/Hunger Games crossover!  
> Also, it’s the anniversary of the Battle of Monmouth and the Stonewall Riots~!

**James Madison, District Eleven**

**~ Tribute Parade ~**

There were many parts of Hunger Games that Madison found terrifying, and having to interact with the Capitolites face-to-face was one of the scariest. They were but beasts in bright, eye-blinding colors and popping out with ridiculous, wild outfits that made him flinch and they wore makeup that made their faces monstrous. These creatures would be placing bets against his life, laughing when he died, not giving a damn about his starving family in Eleven that a single costume of theirs amounted to enough money to feed them for months. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to smile at them or give pretty lies to win over their favor, so that they might feel “generous” enough to give him a sponsor.

 _“Fake it ‘til you make it,”_ Stanley Worthington had told them with a smirk when they first arrived. _“No one wants to see you how you are- they want to see who they want you to be.”_

Madison didn’t want to be anyone for them, because why bother when he was going to die anyways? He just wanted to ignore them, but as a _“poor, weak Eleven,”_ he had to oblige to their demands if he wanted to last after the Bloodbath.

 _If_ he survived the Bloodbath.

_Yeah, right._

Standing up on his chariot, the one second to last, he could observe the tributes getting ready up ahead of him, and 99% of them looked like they could kill him in a blink of the eye, from the cold-eyed girl of District Five to the sneering boy from District Nine.

That was the other part that twisted his stomach. The tributes. Dressed in these costumes, some faces hidden behind masks, they felt less like people and more like aliens, worlds away in glamorous colors while he wore dark brown leather attire and a wheat crown because he wasn’t muscly enough to wear anything more revealing (he thanked God for his scrawny frame in this instance).

Sally was silent at his side, and looked much more sponsor worthy with her young, empathetic face and orange dress and similar golden crown. He felt a dagger to his heart, looking at her. She was just barely thirteen, only a bit older than Ambrose, and it was too late to keep his distance and try not to care about her.

He couldn’t, when she sat next to him and took cake at breakfast, listened to Stanley with huge eyes as he cheerfully discussed their imminent death, and fiddled with her dark silky hair almost constantly as if she couldn’t believe how clean and soft it was. She was but a child, and being an older brother gave him the curse of looking after her like she was his sister.

It also didn’t help that she seemed to be attached to him in the same way, because she somehow managed to show up around him and get to walk down the halls next to him without being annoying. But she couldn’t be annoying. Not when they only had a few days left together, and Stanley Worthington was in those few days.

Not when she was his last connection to home.

“Okay, its time,” Adam spoke quietly from next to them, at the head of their chariot. He looked back at them, and his moonless dark eyes- which unsettled some -were strangely comforting. “Just smile,” he murmured softly. “Just for a few minutes. Then we can leave.” Madison could see it on his face- somehow some way, their escort hated this as well.

“Got it,” he replied automatically, because the first chariots were being let out, and he could hear the cheers and screams on the other side and his heart was sinking to his stomach despite Adam’s sincerity.

Their escort nodded, understanding as always, and stepped back into the shadows as they were rolled forwards by their horses, and suddenly the lights were blinding his eyes and the applause of the crowd roared deafeningly in his ears.

 _Too bright. Too loud._ It was thundering and raging and glowing and the colors were mixing into a sickening blur and he really did think he might just pass out right then and there because _how_ could anyone take this in without collapsing?

But he felt Sally’s hand lock onto his own where no one could see, and he focused on the warmth of her skin, grounding himself, took a few deep breaths, and looked over to see her dark hair lashing back from the blowing breeze, lights jumping off her tawny-colored skin, but even with her eyes scrunched up against the glare and noise she managed a shaky smile at him.

It dimmed the shrieks and ringing in his ears, glossing it over like he was underwater, and he smiled gratefully back, grabbing onto that moment of comfort, and then they looked back to the front and he could control a trembling focus onto the cruelly vibrant streets ahead.

A large screen stood on the side of the road, flashing images at them of the chariots closest- a silkily smiling Aaron Burr, and there was a roguish smirk on Maria Reynold’s heart-shaped face.

He looked away when it was on himself. He didn’t need to see how pathetic he looked compared to the wild reality around him.

The chariots turned down the street, and Madison looked back up as they rounded a bend, finally allowing himself to give attention to King George the III, who stood high above them on a balcony with a wild grin.

The King seemed more Capitolite than President sometimes, starting with his not-white-from-age hair, his elaborate red and fluffy white cloak pinned at his neck and flowing down his back, his bright, icy blue eyes, to his square, golden and jeweled crown gleaming and hard on his head.

Madison had seen their last President- President Snow -on the T.V years back, and he had looked more sharply-dressed and fake-faced than their current President. King George, however, was more regal, unpredictable, and loud. Truly, there was never a great choice for President. The next one would probably have an addiction to dragons and mermaids as the king had an addiction to medieval attire.

His ears were ringing, and Madison realized after looking around that it was because the crowd had quietened, briefly, to look up adoringly at their President for his speech. He did too, after catching eyes with the blonde girl from Seven, because she had given him a small, tired smile and he wasn’t ready to make any interactions yet.

 _Never_ would be best, but since that wasn’t possible he would stick with the least amount he could do.

“Welcome, my citizens, to the 81st Hunger Games!” King George announced into the speaker, his smooth and excited voice causing vibrations of eagerness and joy to course through the audience like electric currents.

“And congratulations to you, Tributes,” the king beamed down at them, and even though his icy blue eyes couldn’t meet all their gazes, his direct words to them unnerved Madison. He preferred that the king just watch them on a screen and talked to them in his head.

“Panem honors your sacrifice and nobility,” King George continued, “and we are proud to have such virtuous souls like you to bring us victory.”

Madison held his tongue as the crowd cheered eagerly for the upcoming bloodshed of the young, and he avoided the lens of the camera that drifted above them, searching for their reaction. He shot a glance to the screens and saw a magnified picture of the boy- though he looked much more like a man- from District Four, who looked the very essence of what James wasn’t: steady faced, broad-shouldered, and far muscular enough that his stylists decided to ditch a shirt and paint swirls of glittery, dark blue waves onto his toned chest. He appeared unaffected by the noise, though his deep brown eyes had a wary edge.

“Bring us your best, tributes,” King George smiled, but the words rang like a disguised threat. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

The crowd went wild with shrieks and cheers at the parting phrase everyone had stamped into their minds and souls, and Madison started as the horses huffed and stamped their hooves, now leading them back to the training center where they had begun.

Adam, as promised, was waiting for them when they arrived, though they were without the presence of their lawless, chaotic Mentor. Not that anyone was missing him.

Madison stepped down, relieved to get his feet back on the ground and be hidden from the screaming Capitolites. He turned and offered Sally his hand, and she smiled and took it, letting him help her off.

“We don’t need anything else here, do we?” He asked Adam in a murmur, hyper aware that now all the other tributes were freely moving in close proximities around them.

Adam shrugged. “There’s nothing stopping you from meeting some of the other tributes,” he replied, “but you’ll be seeing them tomorrow for the first day of training.”

Meeting other tributes, to observe them and take in a first impression. To judge them of their potential danger as a threat and potential usefulness as an ally.

Stanley had told him that alliances- though they provided much worry and decision -would be useful for him, especially in the beginning. _“Safety in numbers,”_ he had laughed dryly, and given him a smirk. _“Let them have your back before they stab you in it later.”_

Even before he had received those reassuring words of Victor Wisdom, Madison hadn’t been looking for an alliance.

 _Like anyone would ally themself with me,_ he thought bitterly. _A small coughing boy from Eleven with no abilities._ He wasn’t Stanley Worthing, roguishly handsome and muscular with long dark hair and even wilder dark eyes. He knew that even before he stepped foot off of the podium he would be a goner. He had no experience with weapons and he wouldn’t be able to learn how to use one efficiently in the three days he had to train. The only reason someone _wouldn’t_ kill him was because he wouldn’t be perceived as a threat.

But sooner or later they would hunt him down, and then what? He wouldn't be able to fight them off, he was too weak. The boy from Two, for example, grinning at the crowd and cameras (Like Madison was supposed to do) and laughing next to his district partner, would probably have the same smirk as he drove a sword through his chest, though as malicious it would still be as charming. His amber eyes would be bright too, lit with triumphant fire.

Madison shuddered. Amber eyes. Were his eyes really such a vivid, fiery color, like golden topaz? He didn't intend on letting him get close enough to find out.

The only person he thought he could trust was Sally. She was the only one who could understand him, having lived in the hell of his district- forget about Stanley Worthington, who mocked and laughed off anything with a dark edge. But he didn’t want to worry about having to kill her if in the %.00001 chance of them being the last two tributes, or if it became necessary in general.

 _Yeah, I think I’ll just go solo._ That way if he died in some horribly embarrassing way no other tributes would get to witness it.

He looked over at Sally, who was watching the other tributes around them with wide eyes and a bitten lip with the same sort of hopeless look.

“Well, I think we’re ready to-” he started, turning back to Adam, but a boy suddenly materialized in front of him with a smile he couldn’t identify as practiced or genuine. Maybe it was just safe. Madison recognized him almost immediately by the indigo eyes.

Alexander Hamilton, District Twelve’s prodigy. Tonight he was claimed by the Capital, dressed in midnight violet leather, dark lavender jewels freckling under his eyes. His eyelashes went from black to amber tipped, as was his hair, like he was coals catching fire. It was a rather beautiful look, reminding Madison once more of how insignificant he was with a golden wheat crown and plain leather clothes.

“Alexander Hamilton,” the teen greeted him, holding out a hand. Madison hesitated, but he couldn’t see any scorn on Alexander’s face. Just a purple fire in his eyes that were warmer than his orange highlights.

“James Madison,” Madison replied, shaking his hand.

Hamilton nodded, and Madison realized that he probably already knew. He looked viciously intelligent, and Madison recognized him as one of those people who would stay up late at night analyzing his competitors and dissecting each move and word for meanings and flaws. The notion left him uneasy, and now he felt like Hamilton was picking up all his weaknesses- even the ones he didn’t realize he had. But his smile was energetic and kind, and so Madison missed that usual wary and angry emotion that would accompany the realization.  

He was brought back to the present as Hamilton gave a polite little bow to Sally.

“Greetings, miss,” he smiled at her, his amber lashes blinking gently.

Sally, as well, seemed entranced by the fire-lit boy, and she mumbled a soft, “hello,” in return. Hamilton seemed to understand her shyness, because he didn’t press her for another response. Instead, his indigo eyes grew brighter and softer, and then he turned back to Madison.

“I saw your Reaping,” he commented. “I admire your strength when they called your name and your brothers reacted with grief.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing so the amber flickered over his indigo irises. “But... you didn’t.”

And he didn’t sound accusing. Or confused. Or inspired with awe. Just noticing. Just making a fact.

Madison stared at him, stunned into silence and caught in thrashing waves of surprise, anger and pain. Hamilton had been able to tell who his brothers were. Had he been able to recognize the fear on their faces from personal experiences? Did he have, or had, siblings?

_“I admire your strength.”_

Never in a million years would he have expected the words to come out of the mouth of a handsome District Twelve tribute with indigo eyes and fire brushing against his skin. Never had he expected those words at all.

_Your strength._

Hamilton’s eyes alighted on something past Madison’s shoulder, and he said, “well, I’ll see you at Training, James,” and brushed past him to his next victim. Madison turned to watch after him, still slightly jarred by the teen’s honest tongue, and saw him dart up to the boy from District Three, who sent off rainbow rays when the light caught on his sparkling white suit.

“Think he’s trying to get everyone to like him so then he can stab them all in the back later?” Came a curious voice from behind him, and Madison nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned and saw the male tribute from District Two- wait, his name was Thomas Jefferson -following Hamilton with sharp observance in his amber eyes.

Madison stared at him, still befuddled with memories recalling Ambrose’s tears and the dusty scent of Nelly’s hair. _Is he talking to me? Why would he do that? I didn’t do anything that would attract his attention, did I?_ He hadn’t necessarily done anything to attract Hamilton’s attention either though, had he? _“I admire your strength.”_ Maybe he had, but Hamilton was different. A career wouldn’t have noticed such a thing.

He felt a jolt of embarrassment as he realized that he still hadn’t replied, and now Jefferson was looking at _him,_ expecting an answer.

“I think he’s just getting to know his competition so he’s less worried about them,” he muttered, not meeting the Two’s eyes. “Hearing their voices makes them seem more human.”

Which was true, for him. Sally’s voice was more husky than her young face would let on. Hamilton’s hand had been calloused from the harsh mining conditions in Twelve, and Jefferson’s eyes _were_ as amber up close as they had been from a distance. There was a quiet pause, and when Madison glanced over at Jefferson he was relieved to see that he was focused again somewhere else, and he took those moments to get some air to his lungs, allowing himself to relax a bit.

He felt a tug on his hand, and he looked over to see Sally, whose huge umber-toned eyes clearly read, ‘can we get away from the scary career tribute?’  Or, less politely, ‘why the _hell_ is a career tribute by _us?_ ’ She looked as uneasy as he felt, especially since he agreed, and that meant he would have to give an excuse to leave and need to talk to Jefferson again, since Sally wouldn’t. Not that he blamed her.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage (which seem eager to escape him), and turned back to Jefferson.

Who was now looking at him, recognizing that he was about to be addressed.

His amber eyes were still way too intense for Madison to meet, so he talked more or less to his shoes. “Well- See you at training,” he muttered, and bit back a wince at his mumbling voice. _Come on, James. Talk like a civilized person._

“Yep,” Jefferson replied casually, and Madison stiffened at his nonchalant tone.

 _Well of course he doesn’t care. I’m just another person he gets to shoot down._ He looked up, and this time his anger gave him the strength to meet Jefferson’s fiery gaze without flinching.

“Have a great night, playing with knives are whatever it is you do,” he said flatly, his voice hard and uncaring, and then he spun on his heel with a beckoning nod to Sally, who needed not another second of convincing as she darted to his side.

He knew he would have time to go over the whole conversation and try to die after his choice of his words, but he was too busy trying to act like he didn’t hear Jefferson laugh behind him, or feel those amber topaz eyes watching after him.


	9. Start a Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In my universe, Jonathan Bellamy is essentially an angel and was the John Laurens to Aaron Burr’s Alexander Hamilton.  
> I only have three training days, and WAY too many relationships to try to establish by then, but I’m going to do my best! Also there’s going to be lots of exposition, so I apologize for that beforehand!  
> Happy Fourth of July and Season 3 of Stranger Things!! And it’s the anniversary of the deaths of Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, who both died on the same day. (July 4th, 1826)

**Aaron Burr, District Ten**

**~Training, Day One~**

Aaron wasn’t sure why Alexander Hamilton was following him around. Maybe it was because they were both from poorer districts. Alexander had protested, huffing, “ _no, not because of our districts_ .” His startling indigo eyes had glowed when he declared, “ _But because of our destiny. We’re going to be important. I can feel it._ ”

Aaron didn’t feel the same. He didn’t have that confident fire. When his name had been called, he had been struck with a numb terror and leaden dread. But, for a moment, he had felt a twinge of interest and hope. That had quickly been extinguished when Bellamy had yelled his name in fear and Aaron had quickly sped up to the stage before his friend could volunteer for him. God knew the last thing he needed was another person who loved him dead.

Aaron asked him why Alex thought it was them.

“Do we need to have anything?” Alexander inquired back. “Can’t it be us, just because we’re us?”

“We’re not typical heroes,” Aaron replied.

“Well, everyone has a motive, or an intention,” Alex responded, because he always had a question or an answer. “What’s yours?”

“Talk less, smile more,” Aaron shrugged before he could take the personal mantra back. It had been his motto for years. Bellamy had tried to change it. “ _You should talk more,_ ” Bellamy protested. “ _People listen when you talk._ ” By people, Aaron had thought, he had meant himself. Bell was his best (only) friend, and he couldn’t have asked for a better companion, though Bellamy always seemed to ignore the fact that Aaron was stubborn and wouldn’t change his ways.

“Then what do you stand for?” Alexander asked him, frowning.

“‘Stand for?’” Aaron echoed with a humorless laugh. “My life will be over in a matter of _days_. I can’t change Panem in that amount of time.”

Alexander shook his head in frustration. “You can’t change it by learning how to build a fire in the arena,” he said, nodding over to the designated station, “but you can by starting a fire of rebellion.”

Aaron stiffened, the knot slipping from his fingers as his head snapped over to stare at Alexander in shock. “Are you crazy?” He hissed quietly, his voice tense with anger and fear as his eyes instinctively darted across the room for redcoats.

Thank God there weren’t, but he caught eyes with James Madison, who was at the plant identification station a few paces away. From the way the boy quickly looked back at the leaves and flowers with sudden interest, Aaron felt a nip of fear.

“What, crazy for wanting something different?” Alex retorted, lifting his chin defiantly as if he had never done anything safe once in his life. “For wanting freedom and peace for a damn change?”

“You can’t talk like that where they could be listening,” Aaron persisted quietly, his ears buzzing and pulse starting to climb painfully. “If you talk too much you’re going to get _shot_.”

“They’ve taken away my safety, my family, and the care of my people,” Alexander growled, his eyes burning with hate, his words sharp with practice as if he rehearsed them for the day someone would listen. “They’re going to pay for the life they took from me, and I won’t let them take away my words, too.”

And Aaron could believe it. Alexander radiated a fiery confidence and a cold, strong will, and he held himself with a resilient determination. A deadly stubbornness that would get him killed. Death didn’t discriminate, but it would easily take the fools who ran their mouths.

Too bad there was something almost inspiring about his words, something so powerful Aaron forgot, for a moment, that he was practicing snares and knots that could save his life in an arena built for his death.

Alexander visibly relaxed and looked calmer now that he had gotten to speak his mind, and his eyes fell onto Aaron’s silver bracelet and bell charm. “Do you have a girl back at home?” He asked curiously.

Aaron slapped a hand over the bracelet and gave him a sharp look. “No,” he muttered, unable to admit that he had never had a girlfriend. They just never seemed to fall for his flirting or for him, even though Bellamy was constantly reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault, and that they were seriously missing out on his charm.

“That’s too bad,” Alex sighed. “I’ve got a few waiting for my return.” Aaron stared at him, momentarily baffled. Alexander had more than one girlfriend? At the same time? Well, maybe that wasn’t actually too surprising.

He realized he was overanalyzing a stranger’s love life when Alex smirked and said, “joking. I don’t have one either.”

Aaron was caught between a smile and sigh so he went with a head shake.

“Hey, Alexander!”

The boys turned, and the boy from District Three- John Laurens, Aaron recalled -had darted over to join them with a smile that Alex met with one as bright.

“Hi John,” he smiled, and gestured a hand at Aaron. “Have you met Aaron Burr yet?”

“Don’t think I have,” the freckled boy replied, and gave Aaron a nod of acknowledgement. Aaron inclined his head back, feeling a bit more relaxed in Laurens’s presence. He didn’t speak in as energetic volumes as Alex, but he wasn’t necessarily cold, either. He seemed more level-headed.

“Laf and Angelica are here,” Laurens murmured to Alexander, and now his green gaze turned curious on Aaron. “Is he going to be a part of the group?”

Aaron shot Alex a pointed look. So _this_ was his grand idea? To befriend all the tributes so then they wouldn’t fight each other? _I can’t believe that in the eighty Hunger Games there’s been, no one has tried that tactic yet._

Alexander easily read the message and rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Aaron,” he smiled. “I’m not asking _everyone_.”

“Not everyone would agree, anyways,” Aaron shot back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t think they would be able to say no to me, though,” Alex smirked, and his indigo eyes were so bright that Aaron figured he probably wouldn’t be able to without a good reason, either.

Given the way Laurens was watching Alexander with over-the moon-admiration, he guessed that the other boy hadn’t been able to.

“Are you recruiting members to start that rebellion of yours?” He asked dryly, his voice naturally dipping quietly at ‘rebellion’.

“Yeah,” Alexander shrugged. “Although it might be a bit harder without my pamphlets.”

Aaron sighed, and decided that it wasn’t worth arguing about anymore. “Well, you do that,” he muttered, standing up and traveling to the weapons station. “I’m going to practice, because when you keep out of trouble you double your choices.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Alexander called after him, but Aaron didn’t respond. Mostly because there were two girls at the weapons, and one of them was Theodosia. Her beauty still caught him off guard, just like it had at the Chariots.

**... ... ...**

_He felt awe and curiosity wash over him like a breeze. The girl was beautiful, with smooth dark skin, black braided hair and eyes like sweet pools of syrup. He wasn’t even aware he was walking towards her until he was close enough that she turned to face him with a raised, delicate eyebrow._

_“Hello,” the words blurted out. He took a hasty, polite bow and when he straightened she still looked wary, which sent a chill of unease through him that still couldn’t slice his intrigue. “I’m Aaron Burr,” he added quickly as an afterthought._

_“District Ten, right?” She asked, her hard gaze unfaltering._

_He bit back a wince, feeling a flush of red touch his face._ Right. Of course. I’m just some farm boy next to her. While she’s… gorgeous, _his mind quipped._ Beautiful. Both ice and fire. Wow.

_“Yeah, I am,” he admitted, swallowing._

_Her eyes- so much more deeper and prettier than ‘brown’- no color could describe the bright touches of amber and gold in them -softened a bit. “I’m Theodosia Prevost, District Eight,” she replied, and the goddess had a name: Theodosia Prevost._ Theodosia. _It was serene and colorful._

 _“_ _A pleasure to meet you,” he smiled, and then felt a sting of horror. “_ A pleasure,” Aaron? Really? You’re both in the Hunger Games…

_Theodosia noticed, of course, and instantly the brush of a smile on her face vanished. “Yes, a pleasure,” she muttered, “that we are meeting under these circumstances.”_

_Aaron felt a surge of guilt at her dark expression and he replied softly, “we never would’ve gotten to meet, though.”_

_Theodosia gave him an inquiring look. “I guess. I don’t want to kill you, though.”_

_Aaron couldn’t fight back a smile, as strange as he knew it would look. “I’m glad to hear it.”_

_Theodosia stared at him, and then she laughed a bit, and the sound sent butterflies swooping in his stomach. “You would be okay killing me?” She asked, a teasing bite to her voice._

_He blushed, now painfully aware that he hadn’t said the same thing back. “I- uh- I just think it's more probable that you would be able to kill me,” he managed to flounder for some words._

_And Theodosia didn’t take it like someone else would. She smiled amusedly at him, and her eyes were warm with the beginning embers of kindness. “Thanks,” she said genuinely, and she had won his heart._

**... ... ...**

His body liked to be control whenever he saw her, and without thinking his feet guided him speedily to her direction to the beat of his racing heart.

The two girls looked over from where they had been talking quietly, and Aaron now recognized the other as Angelica Schuyler.

 _Whoever said girls are meek clearly haven’t met these two,_ he thought, feeling his ears heat, because already Angelica was staring at him warily, fierce electricity crackling in her eyes. He felt more assured under Theodosia’s relaxed gaze, and hers was water to where Angelica’s was fire.

“Hello, misses,” he greeted them politely. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Angelica’s eyes didn’t soften. “No, I was just leaving,” she answered coolly, setting a saber back onto the weapons rack before brushing past him like an icy wind. Her exit left him a bit shaken- he had seen the way her fingers had lingered over the saber’s handle before she stalked away, her eyes flickering over him like a cold predator’s. If he had ever been Career-shunned, that was certainly it.

He turned back to Theodosia, and she must’ve seen his uneasy look because she gave him a  reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Angelica,” she shrugged, and he nearly jumped as she flipped him a knife. “She seems pretty scary-“ “Understatement,” he muttered, but quietened at her mockingly sharp look -“but I don’t think she’s interested in killing anyone,” Theodosia continued. “She’s more of a defensive player, but her mind is as powerful as her throw.”

She nodded over to the targets, and Aaron’s stomach dropped as he saw the knife lodged directly in the dummy’s chest. The dummy next to it had a knife centered slightly to the left, and when he looked over at Theodosia he saw her flex her fingers and run her finger over the edge of the knife in her hand he pieced two and two together.

“Did you throw that one?” He asked.

Theodosia looked over, and he watched her trying to squash her disappointment of where her knife was compared to Angelica’s. “Yeah,” she admitted, “I was asking Angelica for pointers, but it still isn’t perfect.”

“I think you did a great job,” he reassured her honestly. “It’s much better than whatever I could throw.” Instantly he wanted to take the words back, because now he sounded like he was inexperienced and a poor fighter, which was the last thing Theodosia would want in an alliance. _Slow down Aaron,_ he chided himself. _Take it one step at a time._

Luckily Theodosia didn’t look too ruffled because she shrugged. “I doubt you’ve had any practice. I can try to help you, though.” She looked him up and down, and it sent butterflies tickling his stomach and his heart fluttering, even though he knew it was stupid. “Maybe a bow and arrow?” She suggested. “You have a good form.”

She knew exactly what to say to make his face flush and heart race, and he saw her eyes twinkle lightly and realized, _she’s doing it on purpose._ She was flirting, wasn’t she? _I should know, I do it all the time._ He and Bellamy joked that he was quite a master at it, and he liked to make Bellamy crack up with silly lines like, “I’m a trust-fund baby you can trust me” while batting his eyes. The memory made him smile, though it faltered because he was probably never going to see Bellamy again, or hear him laugh. His fingers instinctively went to his bell charm, and then remembered he was having a conversation with the most gorgeous girl he had ever met.

“Do you specialize with any weapons?” He asked her.

Theodosia gave him an amused look. “What, you think that I can’t use weapons because I’m a girl?” She asked him playfully, and heat flushed his face.

“What?” He stammered, losing all attempts at cool and collected. “No, I was- I was just wondering if-!”

Her beautiful laugh broke him off, and he stared in undisguised awe as she grinned and said, “I know what you meant, Aaron. And yes, I do.” Her smile grew mischievous and his heart fluttered at it as she told him, “I‘m using knives.” She flicked the one she was holding into the air and caught it deftly. “They’re sharp and small, and require precision and accuracy. I think I learned how to use them quickly because they’re so similar to the needles I used to sew clothes with back in Eight.”

 _I love her,_ Aaron thought to himself in wonder and warmth, and it wasn’t the first time he had thought it since meeting her at the Tribute Parade, but it made him feel just as nervous and excited as the last. _Looks like I might have found a girl, Bellamy,_ he couldn’t help but confide to his best friend happily. But that happiness was tainted with a bittersweet poison.

It was too bad they would have to kill each other in the arena. 


	10. List in Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter? It took me a little while to write, obviously, but I got most of Alexander’s relationships discussed. 
> 
> So I’m just not going to make promises about when updates will happen, but I /will/ promise that unless I say so, I’m going to finish this story. I have the last chapter, I have events written, and I love these characters. Thanks for sticking with me <3
> 
> (Always feel free to let me know if I spelt anything wrong or missed a word in a sentence!)

**Alexander Hamilton, District Twelve**

**~Training, Day One, Night~**

 

Alexander knew the logical emotion he should’ve been feeling after his first day of training was apprehension and fear, but as he belly flopped onto his bed with a stomach full of steak and chocolate cake, all he felt was nervous excitement. His muscles ached, but energy still raced through him restlessly, so he grabbed his notebook and pen with purpose.

Peeta hadn’t argued when Alexander had asked him for one and handed him a notebook like he had spoken on Alex’s behalf that no, his pen was not a weapon, though Elizabeth had given him a disapproving look from across the table.

He opened the notebook and a list of the tribute names reflected back in shining black ink from paper much thicker and gentle than the material back home. Next to each name he had written a short summary of their character, or observations.

John André at the top had the description, _crowd pleaser. Likes_ _Eliza. Don’t trust._ Alex grimaced at André’s name. No, he didn’t trust the sly, golden-eyed wolf whatsoever. Everything he did was for himself, and it appeared that he would take what he wanted by any means necessary. The only soft spot he seemed to have was for Eliza, his district partner, but that made Alex feel even worse. Eliza was sweet and empathetic, and in no way did he want John André to put her life in danger.

Forcing thoughts of André from his mind, he instinctively smiled at Eliza’s name below. Next to her was: _kind. Trusting. Doesn’t want to fight. Has a close bond_ _with her sister Angelica. Ally._

And so on.

Thomas Jefferson was a cocky, violent threat and his skill with weapons made him highly dangerous though Alex didn’t think he had a rational bone in his body. He was all on impulsive and dynamics. He liked challenges, but enjoyed beating them even more.

George Washington, the tall, broad-shouldered boy from Four was also dangerous, but Alexander held a certain admiration and faith in him from their conversation earlier that morning. _Alex had just finished up with the javelin when he turned around and saw George Washington, the Male Four tribute walking- no, striding -up to him. What does he want? Alex thought warily, and he had half the urge to depart the scene without acknowledging the other boy, but Washington intrigued him, from his noble stature to his clear gaze. He was interested in what the tribute had to say to him. “I can see you're a man of great renounce,” Washington said curiously, his brown eyes free from disdain and disgust. “That's something not often expressed from tributes.” Alex prepared himself to argue, and then stopped, staring at the Four in shock. He wasn't calling out Twelve tributes for being weak and cowardly. He used 'expressed,’ not 'lacked,’ and he didn't confine Alex to just Twelve- he said 'tributes.’ And hey, 'man’ gained him some extra bonus points._ Alex had spent his life surrounded by some immoral humans, and immediately he could just tell that George wasn't one of those. He wasn't trying to charm anyone to get them to like him- he was honest, and trying to hold himself together like any other person. That was how Alex gave his trust to the District Four member. “Career” was written in bold letters, but he was hoping that it wouldn’t come to a battle.

Potential ally was written by to his name, while ‘Ally’ was next Angelica Schuyler’s as well as: _outspoken. Bold. Fierce, but she’ll kill only for her sister, Eliza._ Alex felt warmth bloom in his chest as he thought of the girl. Angelica was, without a doubt, one of the tributes whom he admired the most. In a lot of ways she reminded him of himself, in her determination and will for change. He could easily see her winning the whole game... but she would never let Eliza die before herself.

Feeling a chill, he moved on through the next names.

District Five’s Benjamin Franklin and Betsy Ross were ones he held in suspicion. Betsy hid on the sidelines like a fox with her cold silver stare, and while Benjamin seemed harmless with sleek strawberry hair and a delicate frame, his bright blue eyes were wild with untamed electricity. Alexander didn’t doubt for a moment that they would kill, but he knew that when they did no one would see it coming.

He was brought out of his uneasiness into a smile by the next pair, Lafayette and Adrienne. Lafayette was an ally, and even though Alex had only known him for a day he trusted the Six boy with his whole heart. He didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his smile and energy were magnetic. He was wildly talented with weapons, despite being from the district of transportation, and so even without his charisma and reckless grin Alex wanted him from the start.

However, he was very close with his district partner, Adrienne. Adrienne was slight and sweet with a pretty smile and Alex’s heart yearned for her, but he knew his gut she wasn’t going to make it out alive. She wasn’t fit for fighting, and though she tried she didn’t have the sharp instincts or skills that were needed to survive in the wild. Nevertheless, Alexander accepted her into the alliance because he knew how much she and Lafayette cared for each other like siblings. Well, Laf did anyways. Alex had caught Adrienne blushing around her partner and smiling at him like he was the sun multiple times. He tried not to worry about her, though. With the protection of the alliance, he hoped they would be able to keep her safe for many nights.

District Seven he held in less compassion. He didn’t trust either of them, with Charles Lee’s scowl and shifty gray eyes and Dolley’s aloofness and darting blue gaze, but luckily they weren’t interested him, either.

In District Eight he got to Hercules Mulligan and Theodosia Prevost, both he liked much more. Hercules was broad-shouldered and powerful with a much gentler spirit and dark eyes, and another member of his alliance.

He didn’t know where he placed with Theodosia, but he admired her wit and athleticism. He knew Angelica liked her a lot, but she had told him that Theodosia wanted to go her own way when the game started. Alex didn’t know where this left Aaron, who was head over heels for the beautiful girl. The relationship made him worried. While it seemed that Aaron never chose to do anything impulsive, or make any decision without going over it twice, he seemed unable to resist Theodosia and he hoped the boy wouldn’t get himself in danger while chasing after her.

District Nine was less interesting. He hadn’t seen the girl, Charlotte, speak a single word during his time in the Training Center, so he wasn’t sure if she was secretly a threat or sincerely resigned to her fate. He was thinking the latter.

James Reynolds, her partner, made the hair on his neck stand and bitterness well up in his throat. James Reynolds was cunning, ill-tempered asshole and probably the only tribute Alex _really_ wanted to see gone. Not only was he vile in personality, he had an obsession with Maria Lewis, the girl from Ten. He was constantly giving her suggestive looks and catcalling, making Maria’s confidence falter or her eyes shine. No, Alex didn’t like him at all. Thomas Jefferson looked like a saint next to him.

With or without Reynolds, though, Alex would’ve cared about Maria.

At first, like everyone else, it was her looks that attracted him. Her olive complexion, her soft, wavy chocolate hair and big blue eyes and thick lashes. She was gorgeous. And she knew she was. But as Alex watched her, he could also see that she was insecure. That she was tired, and that she doubted herself. Alex hated seeing that. And so during their break, he slipped away from his group and went to talk with her. Maria had been wary, her sapphire blue eyes narrowing, but he approached her gently and upfront, and after speaking he found that he instantly liked her. Her beauty made her look sweet and trusting, but she was clever and tough. She liked him too, he could tell. She knew he was honest, that he meant it when he said he admired her.

He knew she liked Eliza even more.

Alex smiled, remembering how when he introduced them the two had instantly clicked, and Eliza took Maria under her wing like Alex knew she would. He felt better knowing that the two girls would look after each other, and only after a bit of hesitation Angelica agreed that Maria would be welcomed in their alliance.

Aaron Burr, on the other hand, was more of a problem. Alex considered Aaron a friend, though he couldn’t tell if Aaron felt the same. Despite the boy’s caution and constant overthinking, Alex liked him a lot. He was smart, independent, and had an iron will that could get him far into the game. But Aaron didn’t show any interest in joining Alex’s alliance, though whether that was because he had pledged his loyalty to Theodosia or earnestly just wanted to avoid a crowd and make it on his own Alex was concerned about. Aaron was sharp-tongued and introverted with a strategic mind, though that mind seemed to determine Alex a danger to his safety. His decision frustrated Alex, but he wasn’t going to push the boy any farther than the boundaries Aaron had already set between them.

District Eleven was James Madison and Sally Hemings. James Madison was, somehow, even more aloof than Aaron. He was quiet and drifted like a shadow through the center, never staying at one place or keeping eye contact too long. His silence- but clear observance of the movement around him -unsettled Alex, and while he didn’t dislike Madison he silently decided that he would leave the other boy alone, and hopefully while they wouldn’t be friends they wouldn’t be enemies, either. Although there might be problem if he decided to follow Jefferson around like the other boy did to him.

While Madison was cold and distant, his partner Sally was skittish and untrusting, and Alex couldn’t remember ever seeing her pick up a weapon. Instead the girl was always by the plants, or doing the ropes or other survival methods. Alex wasn’t scared of her, but rather _for_ her. Sally was a perfect example of the Capital’s cruelty, and whenever Alex saw her his anger grew into a sun in his chest. Sally was the youngest tribute in this game, and the thought of her death sickened him. She shouldn’t be here, memorizing poisonous plants and how to throw a knife- she should be at home, playing under the sun and rolling down green hills with her orange ribbon loose in her hair. Alex wanted to help her, he really did, but Sally only went near James andswiftly avoided others like a little bird. When he smiled at her she had smiled fleetingly back, but she hadn’t come over to talk to him, rather keeping to the outskirts and watching with round, sorrowful eyes.

Thinking of her made his heart break. There were so many people who didn’t deserve to die in this game... so many people he wanted to protect... but he couldn’t.

At least there was one person he didn’t have to worry about: his own partner, Elizabeth Sanders.

The girl was always in constant motion during training, tying knots and shooting arrows and whatever else kept her alone so she could focus. Her stoic guard frustrated Alex, who wanted to win her trust as she was the only person who held connection to his home, but he had to respect her distance, too, and so he left her alone to her own training.

Finally, his eyes fell onto the name that meant the most: _John Laurens._

It felt like butterflies in his stomach as he thought of the boy from District Three.

His curly bronze hair, his freckles like stars and beautiful green eyes. His smile, brimming with energy and determination, made his heart race even now.

 _John Laurens._ The boy he loved.

He heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. God, he had never felt this way before. Sure, he had had crushes. Fleeting moments of warmth and intrigue. Truth be told his pulse had raced when he greeted Angelica and heard Eliza’s laugh.

But Laurens...

 _I’ve known him for what, a day?_ But it felt like years.

He had shaken Laurens’ hand after the chariots, and he just knew. He had looked into the boy’s eyes and felt himself get lost in their green depths and golden hints. Laurens was perfect. His smile lit up the room like the stars the night, his enthusiasm and warmth unrivaled by the sun. Alex thrived off his passion, and felt his heart jump in his throat with every friendly touch on the shoulder. God knew he would do anything for that boy.

When Alex has first stepped onto that platform in front of his District, he had been ready with every drop of blood in his body to win the Games. He had promised Kitty and Ned that much.

But as he looked at the names in front of him- more of them friend than foe -he felt his stomach sink. There was no way he could bring himself to kill some of them if the time ever came. The thought of putting a bullet in Eliza’s head, or throwing a knife in Angelica’s chest, or watching that magnificent light die from Laurens’ eyes...

Black spots danced on the edges of his vision, and with a shuddering breath Alex closed the book and held his face in his hands. No. He wouldn’t do it. He’d wait until they got to that bridge before he would even begin to think of it. He had always thought the future could be planned, or swayed, but once again the Capital was taking his dreams and heart and twisting them in its cold talons. 


	11. Bury Your Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, it’s on to the morning of Training Day Two with our most arrogant Career, Thomas Jefferson! 
> 
> This chapter is basically establishing his relationship with James and Alexander in more depth, since Alex didn’t go over him in too much detail last chapter.
> 
> Hope I could make you guys smile a little bit today! <3
> 
> /AlsothisisprettyrandombutIloveAndréthemoreIwritehimsopleasemakemorecontentforthisAndré-deprivedfandom/

**Thomas Jefferson, District Two**

**~Training, Day Two~**

It was the second day of training, and for some reason Thomas was more eager to see James than the swords.

Foolish, he knew, but while other kids had been raised with eating utensils, Thomas had been swinging axes and throwing knives. Those were familiar to him; James Madison was not. Heck, he was even interested in seeing Hamilton if only it meant he could once again prove that the loud-mouthed boy’s weapon-wielding skills were as poor as his insults.

Just like yesterday, the training center was bustling with tributes, and Thomas didn’t even get the chance to say bye before Martha darted from his side to the spears with her usual lack of merriness.

“See you later, too,” Thomas muttered, watching her retreating dark hair, but he wasn’t bothered. He had other things to do, too. 

Perhaps it was the fact that James was so small and quiet that it made him easy for Thomas to pick out at the snares, and he strode through the room with his head held high. He sent a wink at Angelica, the girl from Four, whose responding glare was positively withering, and waved at André, District One’s golden boy, who mock saluted back.

Thomas’ good mood evaporated immediately when he saw who was talking with James- Dolley Todd, the golden-haired girl from Seven. She was leaning close to him, batting her blue eyes and chatting with a sweet smile. James seemed oblivious to the way she was lightly flirting, instead seeming genuinely interested in their conversation. Dolley tilted her head in admiration at something he said and she shifted closer with a coy grin. Irritation hardened in Thomas’ chest. _Yeah, I don’t think so Miss Blonde._

“Hey Jem!” He greeted his ally cheerfully, and while James looked over with an unhappy look at the nickname, Dolley flinched back and her shoulders tensed. He smiled as he saw a clear emotion flash in her eyes- fear.

“See you later James,” she murmured to him, then slipped away and walked past Thomas without meeting his eyes.

Thomas watched until he deemed her a respectable distance away, then sat down next to James as the boy worked on a snare. Unlike yesterday, when he was twitchy and tense next to Thomas, James seemed more at ease and focused, his calming presence soothing Thomas’ distaste. “You should stay away from Delilah,” he commented airily as James worked on the knot.

James raised an eyebrow. “Dolley, you mean?” He corrected. “What, are you scared of a District Seven who breaks twig for a living?”

Thomas was still learning when the other boy was being sarcastic, insulting, or teasing- most of the time it sounded like all of them at once.

“Of course not,” he replied easily. “But you don’t have to be powerful to be dangerous. I mean, look at Hamilton- he can’t aim a knife throw to save his life, but he might take yours with that horrible shot.”

James laughed and then tried to cover it with a cough, but Thomas caught it and didn’t hide his triumphant smile. “Why are you so mean to him?” James chided. “Don’t you have other things to do than mock him?”

“Oh, like what?” Thomas shot back with a smile. “You’re doing this insect identification and poisonous plant memorization for the both us; I’ll handle Hamilton’s ego.”

“You watch yours,” James muttered, “or use my profound skill to poison you.” Thomas laughed, and though James didn’t reply Thomas felt his soft friendliness like a whisper of wind.

There was a clatter of metal, and they both looked over to see said Alexander Hamilton, who had apparently dropped his knives. _You wouldn’t be able to tell by his face, though,_ Thomas rolled his eyes. _Hamilton would never admit to making a mistake._

“One moment, Jem,” he muttered to James. “I see a human disaster over there.”

“I would think you _want_ him to stab himself,” James retorted. But he shrugged in acceptance and Thomas clapped him on the shoulder with a wink before racing over to the Twelve boy. Hamilton had grabbed his knife when Thomas leaped up onto the platform next to him.

“Screw off Thomas,” were the first words that left Hamilton’s mouth at Thomas’ arrival.

Thomas rolled his amber eyes. “Chill, Hamilton,” he smirked. “I’m here to help you throw a knife, because I’ve seen your form and I’ll die if I have to see you disgrace the beauty of weaponry again.”

“Get in front of me and I’ll able to aim easier _and_ kill you quicker,” Hamilton retorted cockily.

“Good lord you’re so violent,” Thomas muttered, looking back at James. To his surprise the boy was watching them through his unreadable gray eyes, and Hamilton noticed and gave him a friendly nod. James blinked, exchanged looks with them both, then shrugged and turned back.

“What are you doing with him?” Hamilton said sharply.

“What?” Thomas asked, defensiveness making him bristle. “I’m not ‘doing’ anything with him, I’m trying to correct your godawful technique so you don’t take out an ally’s eye.”

“Good thing you’re not my ally then,” Hamilton snapped back.

 _For Christ’s sake-!_ Burning with anger, Thomas ripped the knife from Hamilton’s hand and whipped back towards the dummy, slinging the dagger at it. There was a thud as the metal pierced the soft material, and Thomas felt a surge of satisfaction as he saw it perfectly embedded in the target’s chest.

He turned back to Hamilton- the boy was looking at the knife, and his jaw was clenched and indigo eyes blazing. “See?” Thomas asked him sharply. “Watch your tongue and stance, and maybe that dummy won’t be you.”

He waited, fuming, for Hamilton’s response, but he was still surprised when the boy finally said, “fine. Show me.”

His request was more of a demand, and his voice was less than friendly, but Thomas’ anger disappeared immediately and he found his grin again. “Sure,” he agreed silkily. Hamilton flicked him a knife with the blade spinning- one last attempt to subdue him, no doubt -but Thomas caught it deftly and gave him a sweet smile in response to Hamilton’s indigo glare.

“Now... observe,” Thomas told him. He looked at the red center of the target’s chest, then in a graceful arc whipped the knife at the target, and he felt a warm glow of confidence when it landed precisely into the red.

Hamilton looked _far_ less enthusiastic.

“If I knew all it took was to just throw the weapon while thinking, _I’m a stuck up Two, I’m a stuck up Two,_ then I wouldn’t have accepted your offer,” he said wryly.

“Throwing knife takes more than talent and self-esteem,” Thomas retorted. “You need to see the knife hit the target, and understand how the metal feels in your hand, and know how fast it will go through the air and therefore how much power you need to get it to your target.”

He nodded down at the other knives. “Those are my only words for you. It would be best, if you want to succeed, to bury your pride like a dog its bone and take in suggestions from someone who _actually_ knows what they’re doing.”

With that he spun on his heel and walked back to James with smugness hot in his heat and not once looking back at Hamilton. “What is he doing?” He whispered to James as he settled next to him.

James flashed a glance back then murmured, “still looking pretty astonished that you called him a dog, but now he’s observing his knife like it has a personality.”

Thomas couldn’t fight back a proud grin. “Told you it’s fun to mess with him,” he snickered.

James shrugged, but didn’t look too pleased. “I think you should stay away from Andrew,” he muttered in haughty tone.

Thomas burst it laughing at James’ mimic, but secretly he was wondering, _is he_ jealous? The idea made him feel even happier than beating Hamilton in a verbal duel. One thing was even clearer, though- between Jem and Hamilton, this game was going to be even more complicated than he had predicted.


End file.
